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A LONG LANE 



. i i ( 







“It is Sarah Van Dyls. And if she is dead, 
I hiUed her!” 



A 

LONG LANE 


BY 

MARION HARLAND 

AUTHOR OP 

*' Alone,** **A Gallant Fight,** etc. 

^ XaJua/vvc^ ^ 



Frontispiece 


NEW YORK 

HEARST’S INTERNATIONAL LIBRARY CO. 
1915 


Copyright, 1915, 

Hearst’s International Library Co. Inc. V 


All rights reserved, including the translation 
into foreign languages, including 
the Scandinavian 


To the Honored Memory of one of 
God’s Noblemen, 

“The Dominie” of my Chronicle, 
The work is affectionately dedicated 


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FOREWORD 


More than a half-century ago I first made acquaint- 
ance with the persons and scenes that go to the making 
of this story. For forty years the wonder has been grow- 
ing in my mind that a field so rich in historic interest, 
tradition and romance should have been left unworked 
by the novelist. 

With the wonder grew the longing to share with read- 
ers of my own the wealth of material laid to my hand by 
intercourse with the native annalist, and research into 
chronicles of families now extinct, or of which the 
descendants of our generation have sought homes else- 
where than among the hills deeded to their ancestors by 
royal grant. 

When the longing would no longer down, I began my 
recital. I use the word advisedly. So little of the nar- 
rative is the work of imagination, and so much is sup- 
plied by memory, that I can hardly claim the authorship. 

The task has been to me one long delight. If I have 
fallen short of my cherished ambition to do for Northern 
New Jersey something of what Margaret Deland has 
done for Old Chester, and Mary Wilkins and Alice Brown 
have done for rural New England, I may indulge the hope 
that I have led the way for abler explorers and miners. 

Maeion Harland. 

Kaxesata, Pomptox, New Jersey. 




A LONG LANE 





A LONG LANE 


CHAPTER I 

I TELL you, sir, the best blood in New York State 
and in New Jersey is pure Dutch! All this region 
was settled by emigrants from Holland who held land 
by the thousand-acre from royal grants. I can show 
you a line of crooked trees, mor’n two hundred year old, 
not a mile from here, running clean across the lake that 
was a river-bottom then, that were saplin’s in Queen 
Anne’s time, strapped together by surveyors. Enough 
are left to show where the line ran between ten thousand 
acres deeded to Jacobus Van Vranken and eight thou- 
sand deeded to Johannes Van Dyck — my great-great- 
grandfather. Further up the valley, the Van Corlaers 
(your ancestors. Will)” — ^pointing with the stem of his 
pipe to a young man on the other side of the room — 
“owned as much as both of the others put together. 

“The Dutch always located near water when they could. 
And this valley is certainly watered ‘like the garden of 
the Lord.’ The widenin’ of the river made one of a half- 
a-dozen small ponds, all strung together by the river. 
The Indians counted them in as one. That’s why they 
called the valley ‘Kinapeg.’ It means ‘Long Pond’ in 
the lingo of the tribe that the Holland settlers bought 
out — or chased out — when they came.” 

The speaker was John Van Dyck, Senior, farmer and 
1 


2 


A LONG LANE 


miller, elder in the Kinapeg Dutch Reformed Church, 
husband to the comely matron facing him from the op- 
posite corner of the hearth, and father of the three strap- 
ping youths contributing each his quota to the blue haze 
rising lazily to the ceiling, and of the fair-haired girl 
knitting industriously near a window in the shadow of 
the young man whom her father had called “Will.” 

The worthy free-holder and patriarch was a well-kept 
man of sixty, of medium height and what he would have 
described as “stocky” in build. 

Dante writes of one whom “Death had forgotten to 
strike.” It was a saying in the Kinapeg neighbourhood 
that “trouble always shied off from John Van Dyck.” 
He had inherited a goodly estate ; married the first woman 
he courted; she had borne to him three healthy sons and 
one fair daughter. He had told his pastor. Dominie de 
Baun, once and again, that he had marked in the old 
Family Bible a text he wished might stand as his bi- 
ography: 

^^The Lord shall command the blessing upon thee in 
all that thou settest thy hand unto” 

With a tongue that was never more glib than when 
religious “exercises” were the theme, he added: “Yet 
why should I wonder that these things are so.'’ My fore- 
bears were of the salt of the earth. It would be a lack 
of faith to be afraid the salt would lose its savour in 
the third and fourth generation.” 

The person for whose delectation he was now harang- 
uing was a man of perhaps four-and-twenty, whose unlike- 
ness in type and demeanour to the four masculine Van 
Dycks present was marked. He was a university grad- 
uate, a native of Connecticut and a prospective college 


A LONG LANE 


3 


professor, who had, a month before, been appointed to 
the position of principal of the Kinapeg Academy. A 
younger brother of Mr. de Baun had been Norman Lang’s 
classmate at Yale, and the choice of a preceptor for 
the rejuvenated Academy was made at the clergyman’s 
instance. 

Already the pleasing manners of the new master had 
commended him to the neighbourhood, his good looks to 
matrons and spinsters, and he had made friends out of 
hand with the boys and girls enrolled in the school. Mrs. 
Van Dyck had consented, at the Dominie’s suggestion, to 
receive him as a boarder for the first term, and he had 
fitted into his domestic niche with facility which betok- 
ened tact and good feeling. 

The Van Dyck brothers — Cornelius, otherwise ‘‘Case” ; 
Cortlandt, shortened in domestic parlance to “Cort” ; 
and Jack — ^had rebelled at first against the intrusion 
upon the free-and-easy family circle of “a city fellow, 
chock-full of high-falutin’ notions.” But for the stead- 
fast decision of the mother, the new master would have 
been sent to the right about at the first intimation of 
the Dominie’s project. They would have denied to-night 
that they had ever opposed her, so heartily had they 
adopted him as crony and exemplar. It was yet curi- 
ously significant of their unconscious recognition of the 
social and intellectual distinctions separating them from 
the late-comer that, while he had dropped into the habit 
of addressing them by their Christian names, he was to 
them, then and always, “Mr. Lang.” 

The teacher had brought down a set of dominoes this 
evening, and while his attention to the patriarch’s ha- 
rangue did not flag from beginning to end, he only waited 
for the last word before he opened the box and spread 
the contents upon the centre-table, from which the 


4 


A LONG LANE 


brothers had cleared books, papers, and tobacco-pouches 
to make way for the novelty. 

“I am sorry,” remarked Lang, looking over his shoul- 
der at the young girl and her visitor, “that we have not 
room for more than four to-night. When the three pu- 
pils have mastered the game, I hope you. Miss Sarah, 
and you, Mr. Corlaer, will give me the pleasure of in- 
cluding you in our party 

His winning smile brought an answering gleam to 
the faces of the pair, and a blush to the girl’s. 

“We’ll see how they get along first,” she said, with 
an evident attempt to overcome diffidence. 

Her companion rejoined with forced lightness: 

“We are very well satisfied where we are!” 

It was an awkward speech. Sarah’s head sank lower 
over the knitting in her hands, while the brothers grinned 
furtively, and Mrs. Van Dyck rattled the fire-irons in 
laying a log within the maw of the capacious “Franklin” 
that dispensed warmth and cheer throughout the room. 
Her husband hastened to fill the impending pause : 

“You’ll excuse me for sayin’ it. Will, but I shall always 
be sorry your grandfather dropped the ‘Van’ from his 
name. It was a sign of noble blood in the old country. 
The Van Nostrands in Brooklyn and the Van Wagners 
in Newark have done the same thing. This is a free coun- 
try, but to me it’s a good deal like a man sellin’ his birth- 
right.” 

“Father! Father! Come, now!” began the wife, see- 
ing the hot blood darken the cheeks of the visitor. 

Sarah’s face broke into a saucy smile that stirred 
pretty dimples into sight. 

“Why did you name your second child ‘Cortlandt,’ 
then, father.? You left off the ‘Van’ there. Wasn’t 
that giving away the birthright for him.?” 


A LONG LANE 


5 

Everybody laughed — even the father who would not 
have brooked the thrust from one of his sons. 

“Maybe because two ‘Vans’ for one child would have 
been too much of a good thing, Miss Saucebox! Really, 
because the man for whom he was named dropped the 
title before it got to me.” 

His ready-witted wife diverted the talk by turning her 
chair toward the couple on the outskirts of the circle 
about the fire, and falling into a reminiscent vein: 

“I recollect bearin’ my mother say that when your 
grandfather brought his bride (your grandmother) 
home, the church-beMs were rung just as they do in the 
old country when the nobility are married, and how the 
congregation stood up when the bridal couple came to 
church the next Sunday. Dominie Bogardus (he was 
pastor then) never used to begin service on Sunday until 
your grandfather and his wife were seated. I was noth- 
ing but a child when he — the Old Patroon, they called 
him — ^was buried. It was the first time the family vault 
had been opened since I was born. Sarah, child! You 
wiU take cold, sittin’ so far from the fire! Come up 
nearer, both of you! Our talkin’ won’t disturb them” 
— indicating the domino-players by a motion of the 
head. “If we do, Mr. Lang, you will please let us 
know.^” 

“You could not disturb us, my dear lady! And we 
will try not to learn so hard as to interfere with your 
conversation.” 

In saying it, the teacher bowed slightly and grace- 
fully to the young couple, rising from his chair as Cor- 
laer moved forward with his companion, and noting what 
did not escape the mother’s eye, the livelier action and 
gratified expression of the youth. 

Neither of the worthy couple attempted to disguise 


6 


A LONG LANE 


from the other how more than satisfactory the impend- 
ing match would be to them. The Corlaers were far and 
away the most influential, if not the wealthiest family 
in township and county. If the recipient of the royal 
grant of thousands of valley meadows and mountain wood- 
lands were not officially the Patroon of the region, he 
bore the title by common consent, nor was the honour 
allowed to lapse into disuse until after the War of 1812. 
Then the father of the present proprietor of the demesne 
won the rank of Colonel in actual service. It was he who 
let the “Van” slip from the name, as the husk from a ripe 
nut. 

By his orders, embodied in his last wiU and testament, 
a new slab was set in the family vault behind the old 
Colonial church in which he and his forebears had wor- 
shipped God according to the dictates of consciences 
indoctrinated by the Dordracene Confession: 

“COLONEL JOHN CORLAER’S VAULT.” 

True, three generations of his blood and name were 
interred there before the door was unsealed to admit 
him. But he had enlarged what was, until then, a rude 
cellar, had it lined with cemented stone, seemly niches 
constructed in the sides, an arched roof of solid masonry 
built above it and an iron door swung in the opening 
that was previously boarded up. The countryside turned 
out en masse to witness the ceremonious induction of the 
latest tenant, and each burgher felt honest pride in 
the highly respectable addition to county residences. 

The present head of the family was Wilhelmus Vroom 
Corlaer, and albeit he boasted no military or civic dig- 
nity, he was a man of mark. In his father’s early man- 
hood, the patrimonial acres were shorn of their breadth 


A LONG LANE 


7 


in one direction by the sale to an English immigrant of 
a tract that included the river-bottom crossed by the 
primitive dividing line of interlaced saplings. The en- 
terprising Lancastershireman dammed the pretty va- 
grant river fed by mountain springs, and widened it into 
a lake. There was no more picturesque sheet of water 
in the valley embraced by an arm of the Appalachian 
chain. Woollen mills were erected below the fall of 
thirty feet, and a little village grew up about them. That 
the Corlaer coffers were not filled by the sacrifice of a 
section of their lordly estate was a fretting thorn in 
the side of the descendants of the ante-revolutionary 
progenitor. The fretting prick was a spur to native am- 
bition and talent. Before the Lancastershire vulgarian 
was born, another Englishman had explored the moun- 
tains lying further up the valley, and discovered iron 
ore of excellent quality. Wilhelmus Corlaer was still 
under forty years of age when he bought and reopened 
the disused and almost forgotten mine. Before he was 
fifty, taU chimneys punctuated the green heights of the 
mountains, rising, range above range, beyond the ring 
of huts surrounding the brick shafts. The magician who 
had forced the depths to yield their hid treasure was 
now sixty-five, hale as at thirty, and heaping up riches 
with full knowledge (he believed) as to who should gather 
them. Beside the only son, there were two daughters, 
now in the flush of early womanhood. 

It goes without saying to one who has had the pa- 
tience to read the rapid sketch of the Corlaer fortunes 
that the prospective heir to the bulk of the accumulated 
wealth and an ancient and honourable name was, par 
eminence, the “catch” of northern New Jersey. As nat- 
urally, it follows that his marked preference for the so- 
ciety of Sarah Van Dyck presaged to the maternal vision 


8 A LONG LANE 

the fulfilment of her dearest dreams for her youngest 
child. 

Up to the November evening that dates the beginning 
of my story, the young man’s attentions had been con- 
fined to calls at the farmstead of varying length, and 
at irregular intervals. It was only since the cold weather 
made doubtful the chance of seeing Sarah in the flower- 
garden or sitting upon the “stoop,” work or book in 
hand, that he had cast aside subterfuges and called 
openly in the evening. The home-circle widened, easily 
and hospitably, to let him in. 

The piano was wheeled into the sitting-room from 
the front parlor across the central hall, upon the pre- 
text that Sarah really intended to keep up her music this 
winter instead of neglecting it for weeks at a time, as 
had been her reprehensible habit during the two winters 
that had elapsed since she left boarding-school. 

She played passably well; Mr. Lang, with spirit and 
expression that incited her to diligent practice. All the 
boys and girls of that date attended singing-school at 
some time. There was talk of a special class to be held 
in the Academy under the leadership of the master for 
the practice of a Christmas oratorio. 

The innovation upon time-worn neighbourhood and 
churchly customs was presently the theme of the talk 
with the quartette about the Are. The domino-players 
had, at Mr. Lang’s motion, pushed the table further 
back and out of hearing of the quiet chat, and the rattle 
of the ivory chips made it more inaudible. 

“He is waking us old fogies up,” the farmer led off*, 
a backward motion of his head designating the object of 
the remark. “It was only to-day that Mr. Corlaer was 
sayin’ how lucky we are to get such a scholar and such 
a gentleman in this out-of-the-way corner. I, for one, 


A LONG LANE 


9 

am glad to have somethin’ goin’ on winter evenin’s that 
will give my boys raytioxi&X amusement. We wanted a 
dash of new blood. 

“It’s contrary to nature for young folks to be con- 
tent to hug the chimney-corner, night after night, with 
never a bit of excitement.” 

“What about coasting, and sleighing and skating 
interjected Will Corlaer, frowning slightly at the dis- 
paragement of his home-environment. 

Sarah followed him with — 

“And candy-pulls, and quilting bees, and strawrides.^ 
I think the winter is the liveliest time of the year. You 
men are too busy in summer to think of entertaining us.” 

The shrewd mother detected the gleam in the eyes of 
the as-yet undeclared suitor. Decidedly matters were 
moving as she and a wise and benevolent Providence would 
have them. 

The dual motive-power had a sudden jar: 

The door of the sitting-room was pushed back with 
force that banged it against the wall, and there strode 
into the middle of the room a very tall, gaunt woman 
arrayed in a purple calico, scant in the skirt and baggy 
in the waist. Her abundant grey hair was bound about 
her head into a tight knot at the back, and she carried 
a lighted candle in her hand. 

Mr. Lang and Will Corlaer arose at her entrance with 
the instinct of confirmed breeding. The rest of the 
men remained seated and looked expectant, but in no- 
wise startled. 

The apparition stalked directly up to Sarah. 

^^SnowH she croaked in a voice that belonged to neither 
sex. In uttering it, she gesticulated violently toward 
the nearest window, and, like a hoarse accompaniment, 
all now heard, as for the first time that evening, the fierce 


lO 


A LONG LANE 


howl of the north wind. “Rain ! Wind !” her voice ris- 
ing with the roar without. thrusting her candle 

almost under young Corlaer’s nose, “not go home ! Cold! 
Put him to bed! Come!” 

It was impossible to receive the proposition gravely, 
but the Van Dyck boys hid their mouths behind their 
hands and Sarah turned a blushing face aside. Will 
Corlaer rose to the occasion with address one would not 
have looked for in one so diffident and slow of speech. 

“No, thank you,. Miss Sauchy!” He spoke distinctly 
and slowly as to a deaf person, or a child. “You are 
very kind, but I must go home before the snow gets too 
deep. I did not know it was storming. Good-night, 
all!” 

He shook hands with the rest of the company, meeting 
the hospitable protests of his hosts with a smile and 
word of acknowledgment. To Sarah’s distressed mur- 
mur of apology, he returned a hurried, “Never mind! 
I understand!” and was gone. 

The grey-haired woman rushed to the window and 
cupped one hand over her eyes to peer into the darkness. 

**Good boy!” The ejaculation was so vehement it 
sent a spatter of candle-grease down the front of the 
purple calico. Then she coughed. “Cold! Snow! Bad! 
Bad!” 

“He can take care of himself. Don’t fret! He isn’t a 
baby. Auntie !” 

Still blushing behind her pretty ears, Sarah gathered 
up her work and led Will’s distressed partisan from the 
room. 


CHAPTER II 


T he snow degenerated into rain before morning. 

When Willielmus Corlaer’s covered buggy was 
brought to the door after breakfast, the wheels crunched 
harshly into coarse, sleety mud; the horses shivered un- 
der rubber sheets bound closely to their sleek coats. The 
master drove and owned none but animals of high degree. 

He appeared within the porch as the team stopped 
at the gate. His stalwart figure was encased in a shaggy 
dreadnought; a fur cap was strapped over his ears; the 
whip in his hand showed his intention to be his own coach- 
man. His destination was the shiretown of Millville, a 
manufacturing centre ten miles away. 

Mrs. Corlaer had ventured a gentle remonstrance at 
breakfast. 

‘Ts it really necessary for you to go to-day, my 
dear? It may be better weather to-morrow,” pleaded 
the sweet voice in cadences that were never more per- 
suasive than in addressing the consort of forty years. 

She had heard the formula of the reply often enough 
to forewarn her: 

“Did you ever know me to break an engagement on 
account of the weather? There should be hot milk for 
coffee in weather like this !” 

“Here it is, dear! It was my mistake in passing you 
the cream- jug,” she hastened to respond. “It was very 
careless of me.” 

There was no recognition of the apology and little 
11 


12 


A LONG LANE 


talk of any kind during the progress of the meal. Al- 
wa^^'s well-cooked and abundant, it was especially at- 
tractive this morning. Broiled chicken, garnished with 
sausages; fried potatoes, hot rolls, waffles and honey — 
were the staples of a repast that would horrify the 
dietetist of the Twentieth Century. It might have been 
said of Wilhelmus Corlaer, as the epitaph upon the tomb 
in the Westover garden records of Colonel William Byrd, 
— that he was “a splendid economist.” His methods did 
not stoop to the sordid details of what was eaten and 
drunk in his household. His whole life was constructed 
upon large lines and broad spaces. The business that 
called for a ten-mile drive in the teeth of an easterly 
storm involved thousands of dollars. He would have 
kept the appointment as punctiliously had it been a mat- 
ter of cents. 

To be masterful was the prerogative of the head of a 
household at that day. The rod was the scriptural sym- 
bol of paternal authority, and “Wives ! Submit your- 
selves unto your husbands !” aligned itself with the deca- 
logue. What rule was gained by the weaker vessel was 
achieved by diplomacy, by tears, or by scoldings. The 
true gentlewoman who had called Wilhelmus Corlaer 
“Lord” for two-score years, could not lower herself to 
the plane of a schemer, or termagant. Their offspring 
took “Father’s ways” as an integral factor of the 
daily life of young people whose parents still lived and 
reigned. 

He uttered but one speech apart from such details of 
the business of the table as could not be slurred over, 
after the curt rejoinder to his wife’s timid demur. Push- 
ing back his chair with the definitive air common to the 
man-of-affairs, he rolled up his napkin, rammed it into 
the silver ring, and accosted his son: 


A LONG LANE 


13 - 

“You will write all those letters this forenoon and 
see that they go to the post-office. Say to Brinkerhoffi 
& Company that I shall put their account into a col- 
lector’s hands unless payment is made at once. Good- 
morning !” 

A comprehensive movement of head and hand applied 
the salutation to all at table. 

The girls said carelessly, “Good-bye, father!” the son, 
“Good-day, sir ! Sorry you haven’t better weather !” 
and helped himself to a last waffle. The wife went with 
the traveller to the hall. The east wind brought in a 
rush of wet snow as the door was opened. 

He held the lock fast while he dropped a hasty kiss 
upon her cheek. 

“Go back! there is no sense in your catching cold!” 

She stepped to the window to see him plough through 
the slush to the carriage, swing himself to his seat, tuck 
the rugs tightly about him and take up the reins. The 
hostler jumped away from the muffled heads of the horses 
and they bounded into the highway, scattering mud and 
spray on all sides. 

The wife stood for a long moment, straining her eyes 
through the drifting mists. The straight turn-pike was 
lost in the wavering sheet fifty yards from the home- 
stead. The wind, setting in strongly from that direc- 
tion, would, on most days, bring to her ears the steady 
roar of swollen waters tumbling over the dam. All other 
sounds were lost now in the persistent bellow of the 
increasing gale. 

Her children were lingering over their breakfast, their 
tongues the more lawless for the restraint laid upon 
them during the major part of the meal. 

“My dear mother! You look half-frozen!” from Mar- 
garita, the elder of the girls. 


H 


A LONG LANE 


“Before / would go to the door with any husband 
:alive !” This from eighteen-jear-old Carrie. 

Will drew his mother into a chair set close to the fire, 
and chafed her hands. 

“Really, mother ! it doesn’t pay to risk a chill upon the 
chance of making a man feel a bit warmer about the 
heart on the coldest day of the season !” 

“Especially when he doesn’t care a rappee to have you 
do it!” chimed in his sisters. 

“That shows how little young people know oi such 
matter^,” smiled the mother. 

Feeling that her boy stood close behind her, she let 
her head rest against his arm. While it lay there, 
she could have counted the throbs of the loving heart. 
Loyal to the last beat of her own to the husband of her 
youth, she thanked God inwardly that her boy and girls 
were, as yet, demonstrative of the love they bore her. 
With the thanksgiving was linked a prayer that she might 
not live until the cares of this world and the deceitful- 
ness of riches had done their fell work upon generous 
and affectionate natures. 

The tempest held its own as the day wore toward noon. 
Mrs. Corlaer, sitting with her sewing before her chamber- 
fire, saw, through a westward window, writhing boughs 
and the dim outlines of fences tracking across the pallid 
earth. Now and then, a fiercer gust lifted the crepe- 
like curtain and she had a glimpse of the church-spire on 
the other side of what was, in summer, a pretty creek 
bordered with dwarf willows. It twisted leisurely through 
meadows separating the Corlaer grounds from the 
boundaries of the “Brouwer Place.” Of which ambitious 
“residence,” as the owner thought and spoke of it, we 
shall hear more anon. 

Mrs. Corlaer’s eyes and musings were with the Par- 


A LONG LANE 


15 


sonage and inhabitants rather than with the spacious 
building on the other side of the road, when a tap at 
the door heralded her son’s entrance. 

At sight of his face, she hailed him cheerily: 

“You look as if you had got those letters off your 
mind !” 

“I have, thank Heaven ! There were one dozen, all 
told, and none of them was short, except the warning 
to the Brinkerhoffs. I toned it down a little, of course. 
He may learn some day that business methods in the nine- 
teenth century are more gentlemanly than they were in 
his youth. 

“Don’t flare up in his defence, mother! I didn’t come 
to discuss my father’s little peculiarities. Having 
finished the letters and balanced the books, and hearing 
the girls trying to outscream the wind in practising their 
duets in the parlour, I invited myself to sit with you 
until dinner-time — or as long as you can endure my so- 
ciety.” 

^^EndureT 

Look and intonation said more for the one word than 
impassioned protestation could have conveyed. The wise 
and tender shepherd of the flock folded within the en- 
circling hills knew her better than any other living hu- 
man being, husband and children not excepted. With 
him “the cure of souls” was no idle form of words. 

Years agone, he had learned that which made him 
crown this woman, in reverent thought, “the Queen of the 
Valley.” To the wife who shared his admiration and 
respect for Wilhelmus Corlaer’s wife, he thus named her. 
Not even to the true helpmate could he describe the 
gesture and look with which she had spoken to him one 
day of her boy as “the son of my soul!” ''I he Dominie 
never told of the scene. He never forgot it. 


i6 


A LONG LANE 


The valley-gossips said openly that she spoiled her 
first-born child and only son. The father betrayed his 
appreciation of her partiality for the boy by never re- 
laxing the discipline he held to be the only regimen for 
those of whom strict account was to be rendered in the 
final balancing of accounts. He was outspoken in his 
chagrin at his son’s failure to imbibe the business prin- 
ciples that had stamped “SUCCESS” in staring capi- 
tals to all who knew the elder Corlaer. He had sent the 
boy to college in obedience to family tradition and cus- 
tom, and magnanimously forborne to express the full 
depth of his mortification that his son stood at the tail- 
end of his class through every term, and barely scraped 
through the “finals.” If the parent did not hear it said 
in so many words, that Will owed his degree to the fact 
that his father was a Trustee of Rutgers College and 
a liberal contributor to the funds of the venerable Alma 
Mater, he surmised — and justly — that the assertion was 
made behind his back. He took the virtual Failure into 
“the business” and wrought mightily to weld him into 
sometliing like the shape Wilhelmus Corlaer’s partner 
and presumptive successor should wear. 

It would be a waste of words to write that none of 
these adverse circumstances moved the mother from her 
settled belief that her boy was undervalued by the com- 
munity and dealt unjustly with by the father. She held 
fast to her faith in him. 

To do Will Corlaer justice, it must be said that he 
was ever at his best when en tete-a-tete with his cham- 
pion. His father would have stared incredulously had 
he looked in upon the pair to-day, secluded by the storm 
in the fire-lit cosiness of the mother’s room, the son upon 
a cushion at her feet, his head against her knee, her 
hand playing lovingly in his hair. 


A LONG LANE 


17 


“This is what I call home-comfort !” The remark 
ended a silence neither found awkward. The son 
stretched his long legs luxuriously over the carpet to 
bring his feet nearer the hearth. “Such comfort and 
in such a home is not to be found anywhere else in the 
Jerseys !” 

“I am glad to hear you say it, dear. I am selfish 
enough to wish you to think your home the dearest place 
on earth. At least, until you have one of your own.” 

Motherlike, she heaved a little sigh in bringing it out. 
Lives there the woman who can cheerfully anticipate 
the abdication of the throne in her son’s heart she has 
held in peace and pride from his infancy? 

Will pulled her hand down to his lips. All that was 
best and noblest in him responded most fully to the wand 
of this eldest of loves. 

Silence fell between them for a long minute. The 
wind keened shrilly around the gables ; wraiths of snow 
wavered before the windows, hurrying to dash them- 
selves to death against the western ramparts. The 
mother did not take up her sewing again until Will 
straightened himself into an upright posture and wrapped 
his arms about his knees, still staring into the fire. 

“Mother,” he began in an indifferent tone, “what is 
the matter with Miss Sauchy Van Dyck? Was she 
always as we see her now?” 

She had not expected the talk to take this impersonal 
turn, but she answered as if it were perfectly natural. 

“She was never quite right. As the Scotch say of such 
people, she is ‘not all there.’ She is Mr. Van Dyck’s 
only sister. She can hardly be called idiotic. She is 
really shrewd about some things. She sews and weaves 
and knits beautifully; her butter and cheese are the 
finest in the county, and her preserves took a prize at 


i8 


A LONG LANE 


the State Fair some years ago. She has never learned 
to read, and, as you know, has a language of her own 
making. The family understand her. Her father and 
mother spoke Dutch. Indeed, many families in this part 
of the state did the same. 

“Your father thinks that the mixture of Dutch and 
English spoken in the Van Dyck family was one cause 
of poor Sauchy’s jargon. In some way she has got hold 
of words that belong to other languages. One thing is 
very odd. She calls Mr. de Baun, ‘Dominie.’ That is 
natural. But she speaks of Mrs. de Baun as ‘Dominie- 
isha,’ which Mr. de Baun says means the ‘Dominie’s 
wife,’ or ‘woman,’ in Hebrew. And she calls a man she 
does not know, or sees for the first time, ‘Ish’ — the He- 
brew for ‘Man.’ She used to speak of her mother as 
‘Mere’ and her father as ‘Pere,’ the French names for 
father and mother.” 

She laughed softly before going on with the story, 
her needle playing in and out of the stocking she was 
darning. 

“Mrs. Van Dyck tells to this day how angry Sauchy 
was with her sister-in-law when her third son was born. 
‘What!’ she said, ‘one, two, three boys — plough — dig — 
cut wood! No girl — sew, churn and cook!’ If Mr. Van 
Dyck had not interfered she would have boxed the poor 
mother’s ears. She forgave her when Sarah came. From 
the first day of the girl’s life, the aunt has idolised her. 
Both were named for Mr. Van Dyck’s mother. ‘Sauch’ 
or ‘Sauchy’ is the pet-name for Sarah.” 

Will raised himself to lean forward and put a stout 
billet of hickory wood upon the fire. He adjusted it 
carefully and stirred the scarlet embers to a hotter glow 
before saying — 

“The old maid showed sense there ! Her niece is 


A LONG LANE 


19 

worth a thousand such fellows as her nephews. There’s 
not a girl in the valley to be compared with her.” 

His back was to his mother, and he did not see the 
quick glance that went with the arrested motion of 
her fingers. Then she answered in a quiet, indifferent 
tone : 

‘‘She is a nice girl, a good daughter, and useful in her 
home and in the church. Do you know I believe it is 
snowing harder than ever.^^ I am afraid your father will 
find the roads almost impassable.” 

Without withdrawing his eyes from the arrowy flames 
darting up the chimney. Will pursued the bent of his 
own musings audibly: 

“She is good; she is pretty; she is bright; she has 
the sweetest disposition in the world, and I mean to 
marry her some day if she will have me!” 

Mrs. Corlaer was never florid. Cheek and lips were 
bloodless now, and the dark eyes dilated with absolute 
terror. The hand that fell upon her son’s head was 
cold and limp. 

“Will!” she breathed hoarsely. “Do you mean what 
you are saying? I never thought of tliisT^ 

“I don’t see why not!” His father could not have 
spoken more harshly. In the obstinate set of his fea- 
tures, they took on an odd resemblance to the autocrat. 
“It wasn’t quite the thing for me to go around trumpet- 
ing it before I was sure that she would have me. Once 
that’s settled, Pll be ready enough to let everybody 
know it.” 

There was a long, dead silence. The mother with- 
drew her hand from dalliance with the rumpled hair and 
folded it upon the other, as in prayer. If ever the 
saintly soul had need of divine help, it was now. 

The boy sat motionless, his face darkening and stif- 


20 A LONG LANE 

fening into the likeness she would have recognized had 
she seen it. 

The wind howled and the sleet thrashed the windows. 
Stray pellets found their way down the chimney throat 
and hissed spitefully at the coals. 

Will broke the brooding silence: 

“Of course I have known all along that you would 
all fight anybody I might want to bring into your blessed 
family! Maybe” — with no softening of tone, but with 
a queer catch in the throat — “I was fool enough to think 
that you might listen to reason.” He gulped again. , “I 
see I was mistaken. I’ve got to fight it out single-handed, 
and by G — ! I’ll do it, if the devil himself takes a hand 
in the battle along with the rest of you!” 

“TFiZZ/” She had voice and reason now. If her hus- 
band had fighting-blood back of him, she came of Hu- 
guenot stock of heroic strain. “My son, you are talking 
like a hot-headed boy. You are twenty-four years old 
and, in one sense, you are your own master. In another, 
you are dependent upon your father. Before you think 
of asking a woman to marry you, you should consider 
whether, if you had not your present position, you could 
earn enough to warrant the step.” 

She was speaking slowly and in language she would 
have used to a lad of fourteen. 

“I need not tell you that your father would never 
give his consent to your marrjdng the daughter of John 
Van Dyck. Don’t interrupt me !” for he had stirred an- 
grily. “You would better hear the truth from me than 
from him. The Van Dycks are excellent people in their 
way. The first of the family who emigrated to America 
were Dutch peasants. Their descendants have never 
risen above the level of what the English would call ‘plain 
farmer-folk.’ With the exception of Sarah, who spent 


A LONG LANE 


21 


two years in a Millville boarding-school, not one of them 
has ever had anything better than a common-school 
education. The father and mother are respected in the 
community for sterling good sense and character. You 
know for yourself that he makes himself ridiculous at 
times by his pompous tone and self-conceit. His wife has 
more brains and makes less pretension to ‘fine talk.’ 
She is a kind neighbor, a good wife and mother, and 
a valuable church-worker. Every one who knows her 
esteems her. The sons are ordinary country boys who 
have no ambition above their station. 

“Now, for the other side of the question: Your father 
comes of a race of educated gentlemen. You will find 
in the University of Leyden the names of several genera- 
tions of his ancestors. He graduated from Rutgers 
College with distinction and is now a member of the 
Board of Trustees for the same. No man in the com- 
munity or county — or, I may say, the State — is more 
respected. You are his only son. He has a right to 
expect you to marry in your own rank. Don’t think me 
unfeeling, my boy!” 

Dropping the judicial tone, she bent forward and 
put her arms around the unyielding form. 

“My heart bleeds to be obliged to say all this! But 
you ought to know the truth! I would lay down my 
life to secure your happiness !” 

He shook himself free from the embrace and arose 
to his feet, shaking arms, legs, and trunk as a dog might 
make ready for a fight. His voice was thick and coarse. 

“Talk is cheap !” growled the hope of a patrician 
house. “I’ve had my say, and you’ve had yours. I was 
a damned fool to think that I could make you listen to 
reason when your confounded family pride came into 
the matter. Now, hear the last word I have to say 


22 


A LONG LANE 


until I get the girl’s consent. I am going to marry 
Sarah Van Dyck if I have to go through hell to get her! 
I am going to have her at any price! I mean every 
word of it. I’ll have her if it costs me my soul — and 
hersr 

He tramped the floor furiously, kicking chairs and 
footstools out of his path, the woman’s anguished eyes 
following him, and down in the torn soul the rankling 
query — “Where are the tokens of the lineage to which 
I adjured him to be true.?” 

He pulled himself up abruptly, by and by. 

“I suppose you will tell all this to him as soon as 
he gets back !” 

She arose to face him. Flush and fire had returned 
to face and eye. 

“I am ashamed of you for saying it 1 I shall not speak 
a word of what you have told me to any one until you 
give me leave. Your secret is safe!” 

She stooped to gather up the contents of the work- 
bag that had fallen from her lap. 

“You had better go to your room and get ready 
for dinner. It must be ready soon!” 

He hung back sheepishly. 

“I say” — gruffly, yet with a sorry attempt at con- 
ciliation. “You won’t lay up anything I’ve said against 
me.? I’d hate to be on bad terms with you. You see, 
when a fellow’s in love ” 

Her gesture and look stayed the rest upon his tongue. 

“When a gentleman is in love — or under any other 
provocation — ^he does not swear at a woman! Least 
of all, when that woman is his mother!” 

With that she walked away from him to the window 
and stood looking out into the tempest-torn world be- 


CHAPTER III 


C HRISTMAS was but two weeks off. The moon, 
peeping over the fringe of trees on the nearest 
heights, threw the long, black shadows of a train of 
sleighs sharply upon the stretch of white turnpike be- 
tween the eastern bridge and the group of church-build- 
ings — the Colonial church, the Academy and the hip- 
roofed parsonage. There were six long-bodied, low-hung 
vehicles, each drawn by a pair of stout roadsters, and 
filled from end to end with human figures. 

“A straw-ride!” ejaculated the Dominie, aloud. “And 
the biggest of the season.^’ 

He leaned over the wicket, as the leaders drew near. 
Rude box-bodies were fastened upon wood-sleds and half- 
filled with straw or hay. The revellers sat prone upon 
blankets covering the straw, three and four abreast. All 
were mufi^ied up to the ears, and buffalo robes were 
tucked about each row. The driver of the foremost sled 
was the first to espy the familiar figure at the gate. 

“Hurrah for the Dominie!” he yelled, swinging his 
whip wildly over his head. 

Men waved caps and whips; women clapped their 
hands, and, above yells and the jingle of a dozen strings of 
bells rose chorused voices: 

“For he’s a jolly good fellow, 

He’s a jolly good fellow! 

He’s a jolly good f el-l-l-o-o-ow !” 

23 


24 


A LONG LANE 


The person eulogised swung his hat in time to the tune 
with right hearty good will. 

“A good time to you!” he shouted back as the last 
held-note abated. 

In answer he got a ringing cheer, and by the time the 
procession was rising the hill beyond the western creek, 
the far-off crags were echoing a thundering chorus — 

“We won’t go home ’till morning, 

’TiU morning doth appear.” 

The Dominie laughed a heartsome peal. 

“I’U be bound they wont — the young rascals I” he 
said to his wife, who, attracted by the noise, now ap- 
peared in the doorway behind him, with a shawl over 
her head. “They’ll make a night of it, if, as I suppose, 
they are bound for Ryerson’s I” 

“Ryerson’s ! Do you think they are really going all 
that way.? Ten miles, and up-hill, every mile of it!” 

“You forget, little woman, that they are young — and 
what you and I liked to do ten years ago. I wouldn’t 
mind it now! What a night! Jehoshaphat! I wish I 
had asked them to take us — you and me — along!” 

“Ed de Baun! Are you losing your senses? And 
both of us catching our death of cold standing out here! 
Come in at once! Supper has been waiting this half- 
hour.” 

The parsonage hall was wide, and, obeying the pull 
that coaxed him within, he shut the door and, seizing 
his wife about the waist, waltzed her to the other end 
and back again before she could free herself. Both were 
breathless, and he leaned against the front door to have 
his laugh out while she scolded: 

“Ed! Suppose Rebecca Jane or Mary Kate had seen 


A LONG LANE 


25 

you — a minister of the gospel! and in the hall of your 
manse I” 

“David danced, my dear — and got scolded for it! 
Michal was afraid of what her Rebecca Jane and Mary 
Kate might think of her husband’s antics. Surprising 
how history repeats itself!” 

Rebecca Jane in person ended the feigned alterca- 
tion, by presenting herself at the dining-room door. 

“Supper’s on the table, Mrs. de Baun. I s’posed you’d 
likely want to wait for the Dominie.” 

She was what would have been termed in the slave- 
holding South — a “likely” mulatto. She had entered 
the Parsonage service eight years before, bringing her 
four-year-old girl with her. The two constituted the 
domestic force of the home. The de Baun infants — a 
boy of four and a girl of two — had been asleep for an 
hour and more. The parents had the supper-table talk 
to themselves. 

“I wish you had seen the mammoth straw-ride!” ob- 
served the husband, presently. “It is safe to allow an 
average of ten to each sled — ^with judicious packing. 
And that was pretty sure to be done — in this weather!” 

His companion flushed rosily. She was city-bred and 
prone to be critical of certain rural customs. 

“/ donH like itP^ she brought out, incisively. “I hope 
straw-rides will go out of fashion before my daughter 
is grown! The indiscriminate way in which young men 
and women are crowded together in the bottom of wagons 
or sleds is, to my way of thinking — ^hardly decent! And 
never a chaperon in the party !” 

“Genus and habitat unknown!” interposed the fun- 
loving parson, transferring two more of Rebecca Jane’s 
“griddles” to his plate. 

“More’s the pity ! I had almost said, ‘More’s the 


26 


A LONG LANE 


shame!’ There’s a deal of stuff talked and written of 
the simplicity and purity of country-life, and as much 
nonsense about the city being a hot-bed of vice. When, 
if the truth were told, we should find that much more 
care is taken by respectable mothers and fathers in town 
of the manners and morals of their young people than 
is ever dreamed-of in neighbourhoods like ours. It is 
but natural for young folks to like to associate on 
friendly terms with one another. When it comes to call- 
ing girls by their Christian names after ten minutes’ 
acquaintance, and playing kissing-games, and sitting up 
until midnight, Saturday and Sunday nights, with a girl,* 
when everybody else in the house is in bed — and driving 
a dozen miles after dark, the boys and girls all huddled 
promiscuously in the straw, — why, all I have to say is — 
I don’t call it ^niceV ” 

The Dominie roared. “ ‘O lame and impotent con- 
clusion!’ My dear child! you should write articles for 
the Christian Intelligencer upon ‘The Social Perils of 
New Jersey Country Life.’ Really, my pet!” seeing 
the colour rise to her temples and the blue eyes grow 
misty — “You are setting up a man of straw for the 
purpose of having me knock him down. For genera- 
tions past, the simple folk hereabouts have ‘kept com- 
pany’ and ‘sat up’ on Saturday night, and gone sleigh- 
ing and straw-riding, and lived moral Christian lives, 
died and gone to heaven as comfortably as if there had 
been a chaperon for every couple.” 

She was grave and dignified. 

“I think you are forgetting some exceptions, my dear ! 
Let me give you another cup of coffee!” 

The subject dropped there by mutual and amiable 
consent, and was not referred to again during the meal. 

A distant and incidental allusion was made to it in 


A LONG LANE 


27 

his explanation of a call he intended making later in 
the evening. 

“'I ought to see Mr. Van Dyck before to-morrow even- 
ing’s Consistory meeting,” he observed, having enjoyed 
his usual after-supper pipe in the cosy sitting-room. 
“I am pretty sure to find him at leisure to-night. Cort 
was driving the foremost sled and I recognised the other 
two in the second and third. Probably Mr. Lang and 
Sarah were along, too. So I’ll find the old couple 
alone.” 

He preferred walking the mile lying between the par- 
sonage and the Van Dyck homestead to harnessing his 
own horse to the cutter in which he paid pastoral calls. 
The night was perfect. There might be six weeks’ sleigh- 
ing ahead of residents and wayfarers. Not a wheel 
had been seen on the highroad for ten days. For half 
a mile ahead but one house broke the white monotony 
of the silent world. That was a cottage set back twenty 
paces or so from the highway, and abutting upon the 
fence surrounding the church-yard. 

He wished, in passing the gate of the cottage — now 
occupied by the widow of a physician who had ‘‘prac- 
tised” in the township for a half century — that excellent 
Mrs. Stryker had not pitched her tent so close to the 
grave-yard where her husband slept, surrounded by 
scores of his ex-patients. Wished, too, that the relict 
had never told him that she “liked to think how much 
at home Doctor must feel with so many old friends about 
him !” 

The pedestrian whirled his cane and began to whistle 
to drive away the irreverent fancy. He was half-ashamed 
to discover presently that he was whistling the chorus 
to which the hills had reverberated two hours ago: 

“We won’t go home ’till morning.” 


28 


A LONG LANE 


“Lucky Margaret didn’t hear me !” he chuckled. 
“The air to-night has gone to my head.” 

The jovial crowd would be at Ryerson’s by now. The 
wayside hostelry, built by a father of the present Ryer- 
son in 1818 , had held for nearly a half-century a justly 
earned reputation for “good-living.” The Dominie had 
eaten countless dinners under the hospitable roof. 

Less agreeable was the recollection of his Margaret’s 
expressed scruples relative to the proprieties she con- 
ceived were violated by straw-rides and cognate valley 
customs. He might have reminded the censor that he 
had asked her to marry him on a drive, “by the light 
of the moon,” from a farm-house to her city home. Per- 
haps it was as well that he refrained. Wives were a 
trifle sensitive sometimes touching early sentimental ex- 
periences. 

He was whistling again. This time it was “Love’s 
Young Dream.” He strode down gently-rolling ground, 
the snow creaking under his feet, to a bridge spanning 
a little creek, and stopped to listen for the gurgle of 
the imprisoned water. In the clear radiance, he could 
see that it had burst through the crust, and was chuc- 
kling with glee. 

“Must have vent somewhere and sometime!” moralized 
the spectator. “And it makes all the more fuss when it 
breaks bounds ! There’s a lesson in thatT^ 

Halfway up the hill beyond the creek, he spoke aloud, 
thumping the frozen crust with his stout stick. “Jehosha- 
phat !” his one and only oath, and in which he never 
indulged in the hearing of parishioners. “I wish I had 
thought of that in the argument with Margaret! I’ll 
bear it in mind the next time chaperons come on the 
carpet.” 

The lights of the Van Dyck home were in full sight. 


A LONG LANE 


29 


The mound chosen by the Van Dyck of the present 
generation as the site for his house commanded a view 
of the whole valley, with the intersecting streams and 
the farmsteads dotting the plains. At the foot of the hill 
stood the mill. Beyond it flowed yet another creek. A 
couple of hundred yards up the stream was the fall over 
the dam that supplied water-power to the mill, and broad- 
ened the creek above it into a lake. 

The house was not yet ten years old. The Dominie 
recollected the low, rambling, stone cottage, built half- 
way up the incline. It was not demolished until the 
more pretentious residence over-topping it was com- 
pleted. The terrace flanking the road was constructed 
of ancient stones from the foundation of the house that 
sheltered Johannes Van Dyck, immigrant, two hundred 
years ago. A winding path crept leisurely down the 
sloping yard about the house, from a porch facing the 
mill. 

The Dominie’s knock at the side-door was answered 
by the master of the house. 

“Well! this is something worth seeing!’ was his salu- 
tation. “Come in ! Come in !” 

The door at the right was wide open; the interior 
was red with lamp and firelight. At the dining-table 
in the middle of the room sat Mrs. Van Dyck and her 
sister-in-law, platters of citron and raisins, and saucers 
of ground spices in front of them. 

“They give forth a goodly smell!” said the visitor 
when the first greetings were over. “Making ready for 
Christmas, I see ! I heard my wife talking of mincemeat 
this morning. My mother used to say that it did not 
ripen under a fortnight. She kept it for weeks after 
Christmas — when we fellows had not eaten it all up. Go 
right on with your work, my dear lady ! It is the next 


30 


A LONG LANE 


best thing to eating the mincemeat to watch you pre- 
paring it. Mr. Van Dyck and I will superintend opera- 
tions.” 

He was in an armchair now, opposite the workers, and 
entirely at home. Somehow, without hinting it in words, 
he had made his hosts feel that they were doing him a 
special favour by letting him call at that particular time, 
and that he could ask no better entertainment than to 
sit within their family circle on a winter evening, bask- 
ing in the firelight, inhaling the “goodly smell,” and 
watching the two women clip citron and seed raisins. 

Parishioners would have told you that their Dominie 
“had a way with him that made friends for him every- 
where.” They never thought of analysing the charm. 
An octogenarian who had kept her vocabulary up-to- 
date, and who had a distinct childish recollection of the 
well-beloved shepherd, told me once of this man that he 
was “so delightfully human.** I may not be altogether 
ready to accept her definition of the natural gift — more 
precious than rubies to one of his profession — but I 
am constrained to offer it in partial explanation of the 
enigma. 

He had gone clear around the table to shake hands 
with the other worker who had not lifted her eyes from 
the task until he stood beside her, with — 

“Well, Miss Sauchy! I hope you are keeping well 
this freezing weather 

She had yielded a stiff hand and grunted inarticu- 
lately, then gone on with her raisins, and never so much 
as glanced in his direction again. But when the others 
laughed at his merry talk, she tucked her chin into 
her neck and giggled under her breath. 

The sound of the piano from the sitting-room across 
the hall, stole in upon the talk, by-and-by. 


A LONG LANE 


31 

“Why ! I supposed all your young folks had gone to 
the straw-ride!” ejaculated the guest. “I saw the boys 
in the forefront of the fray when it went by the par- 
sonage. Cort was driving your team, Mr. Van. I 
needn’t tell you there was not a better driver nor a finer 
team there. Didn’t Sarah go?” 

The mother bridled slightly, pursing her mouth in vir- 
tuous protest: 

“No, Dominie! she didn’t! I don’t altogether hold 
with these late night-sleighin’ frolics. Nor, for the mat- 
ter of that, with the free-an’-easy ways some seem to 
think is all right.” 

She was snipping her words now in time with the scis- 
sors that shred the citron into bits. The visitor saw that 
she did not glance at her husband and that the latter 
smoked faster, seemingly absorbed in watching the blue 
curls chasing one another up the chimney-throat. It 
rushed at once into the shrewd mind of the onlooker 
that a conjugal argument, not dissimilar to that which 
had gone on over his own supper, had preceded the noc- 
turnal frolic. He forbore to hurry the worthy dame’s 
speech. He knew, of old, that it would have its own 
way, and with what effect. Her reputed lord might “talk 
large” in his consequential drawl, of masculine rights and 
attainments. She was the steam tug on the other side 
of the bigger craft, that regulated speed, and towed it 
into the haven whithersoever she willed. 

“Mrs. Corlaer and me were talkin’ of that very thing 
two or three days ago,” the clipped accents resumed. 
“We’re on the Supper Committee for the Christmas En- 
tertainment, and have a good many chances of chat- 
tin’ quietly. Not that either of us has reason to find 
fault with our own children. But there’s things goin’ on 
we can’t bring ourselves to approve of. Father” — sig- 


32 


A LONG LANE 


nificantly emphatic, for the elder had knocked down the 
tongs and when he picked them up, fallen to work upon 
the fire — ‘‘Father , — he will have it that ways that was 
suitable and ruleable in his young days is all right 
now. 1 say times has changed, and we had ought to 
change with them. I made up my mind, weeks ago, that 
Sarah wasn’t goin’ on no straw-rides this winter ! I 
say. Dominie, that it’s better to be a bit overly-careful 
than too free-and-easy. I will say for Sarah, she took 
it beautiful, when I told her that what was right and 
proper for her brothers, might not be quite the thing 
for her. The boys went and she stayed, as meek as you 
please, at home to practise her songs for the concert. 
Mr. Lang doesn’t care much for frolics that may give 
him cold. He has a delicate throat, and he having all 
the management of the concert, it would never do for 
him to run no risks just now.” 

The Dominie wondered to his confidential self as he 
had often before, why this excellent woman — and most 
of her congeners — affected doubled negatives in ani- 
mated discourse. He said aloud: 

“I was delighted with Sarah’s singing at the rehearsal 
last Wednesday night. I stopped at the Academy to 
hear it. We are likely to have a great success. I knew 
Sarah had a fine voice. This winter’s practising has 
developed it wonderfully. Margarita and Carrie Cor- 
laer sang a pretty duet, and did it well.” 

The mother beamed satisfaction. 

There are two girls that stayed home to-night. I’ll 
be bound ! WiU is off to Philadelphia on a business trip. 
Of course, he’s out of it. I was a little surprised when 
Mrs. Corlaer said that neither of her daughters was 
goin’. She didn’t make a point of tellin’ her reason. 
She just dropped the remark in her quiet way that Will 


A LONG LANE 


33 


was away from home and she didn’t care to. have the 
girls go without their brother. I knew what she meant !” 

‘‘It mightn’t be a bad idea if she set him — or some- 
body else — to watchin’ that youngest girl of hers at 
other times and seasons !” struck in her husband, 
abruptly. “I’d rather my girl should go on fifty straw- 
rides with decent fellows than to be takin’ up with a 
cub like that Bogue Smerden. And that’s what she^s 
doin’, if half I hear is true. I seen her myself a couple 
of times, strollin’ in the woods back of my mill with him, 
and once I came upon them sittin’ close together on a 
log by the creek, talkin’ very confidential. I’m no gossip 
nor meddler in other folks’ matters. I only say what 
I’ve seen with my own eyes. If Wilhelmus Corlaer ever 
gets a notion that Jake Smerden’s son is courtin’ his 
daughter, there’ll be the mischief to pay. I shouldn’t 
like to be the one to tell him.” 

^‘Father! I call that backbitin’, if not bearin’ false 
witness !” began the wife in horrified protest. 

The Dominie took up the word. 

“I am astonished to hear this,” he uttered gravely. 
“Very much astonished! I should never have thought of 
connecting the names of the two families. Jake Smer- 
den’s reputation for dishonesty and drunkenness is 
known through all the Valley. And from what I have 
heard of the son, he is coming on along the same road. 
Carrie is a lively, light-headed girl and, as the young- 
est of the family, she has had her own way more than 
the others. But I can’t think that she would flirt with 
Bogardus Smerden. I didn’t know she was even ac- 
quainted with him.” 

“Nor she wouldn’t have been in the old time!” inter- 
jected Mrs. Van Dyck, disdainfully. “You can’t recol- 
lect it. Dominie, for it was before you came to us, but 


34 


A LONG LANE 


Father and I do! How the Smerdens never thought of 
associatin’ with nice folks in these parts. As you say, 
the father was a common drunkard and a gambler to 
boot. All the money they have was made by the rise in 
the price of land round about Mr. Corlaer’s iron-works 
up there in the mountains, and in cheatin’ and horse 
tradin’ an’ buyin’ lottery tickets.” 

“Mother!” this with affected solemnity of rebuke 
from the chimney-corner. “Who’s talkin’ scandal now.^” 

Before she got out the retort trembling upon her lips, 
the gaunt sister-in-law pushed back her chair, wiped her 
hands upon her apron and moved quickly around the 
table to set ajar the door leading into the hall. 

Mrs. Van Dyck smiled indulgently: 

“She hkes to hear Sarah sing,” she whispered loudly, 
nodding sympathetically at the visitor. 

He recognized the prelude to the then-new duet — 
“What Are the Wild Waves Saying.^” The aunt must 
have been familiar with it also, for it was not Sarah’s 
voice that led off. The teacher sang well and with ex- 
pression. His mellow baritone rendered “Paul’s” ques- 
tions clearly and with feeling. 

“What are the wild waves saying. 

Sister! the whole day long.^^ 

That ever amid our playing, 

I hear but their lone sad song*. 

What are the waves repeating 
Ever the whole long day.? 

Is it a voice of greeting 

Or a warning that calls away?” 

A wandering gust of wind unlatched the door of the 
music-room at this point. The aunt made a step for- 


A LONG LANE 


35 


ward and laughed like a pleased, eavesdropping child. It 
was plain that, as she craned her long neck eagerly, she 
had a sight of her darling while she sang the next verse. 
The Dominie watched her compassionately. He had 
never seen such abject adoration in human visage. He 
had surprised just that expression in the topaz depths 
of his Ponto’s eyes, upon turning away from book or 
desk, to find that the faithful creature was waiting pa- 
tiently to be noticed and caressed by his absent-minded 
master. 

“The poor woman may be three-quarter-witted,” he 
remarked to his wife in describing the scene, “but she 
has a soul and a heart. And with heart, and soul, and 
strength, she worships that girl!” 

The Dominie clapped his hands softly as the two voices 
rose and swelled harmoniously in the last lines — 

“The voice of the great Creator 
Dwells in the mighty tone.” 

He would have added, “Well-done!” had not the lis- 
tener at the inner door suddenly torn it open and dis- 
appeared in the farther room. 

“What upon earth!” ejaculated Mrs. Van Dyck, jump- 
ing up. 

Her husband and pastor followed her in time to see 
the astonished teacher struggling to free himself from 
the clutch of the big, bony hand upon his collar and to 
ward off the blows the left hand was dealing upon his 
head and ears. Sarah screamed piteously: 

“Auntie! oh Auntie! douHT^ 

The Van Dycks, husband and wife, precipitated them- 
selves upon the wrestling couple; the Dominie’s powerful 
grip tore the young man from the hands of his assailant. 


A LONG LANE 


36 

The woman babbled and spit out invectives in her mon- 
grel dialect, brandishing the empty fists, until the sobs 
of her name-child penetrated ears deafened by fury. The 
transition from rage to tenderness was as amazing as the 
paroxysm of unreasoning anger had been to the behold- 
ers. Falling upon her knees beside the terrified girl, she 
gathered her closely in her arms, cuddling and cooing as 
a mother to her wounded nursling. 

‘‘Come ! Come !” she pleaded, rising to her feet and 
drawing the girl up with her. Lifting her in her embrace, 
she made for the door. 

“Bad homen! Beat!” 

Mrs. Van Dyck took command of the situation when 
the teacher and minister moved to interfere. 

“Let them alone! She will come all right now! Once 
she gets Sarah upstairs, she will be like a lamb. Go 
with her, daughter!” 

The Dominie took a long breath as the pair disap- 
peared. 

“Does she often have these turns?” 

“Not once in ten years !” It was still the wife who 
had words and wits within call. The teacher was ad- 
justing his collar before the oval mirror at the back of 
the room. “I haven’t seen her behave so since the time 
she saw Tom Blauvelt rompin’ with Sarah, tryin’ to 
get a flower away from her. That was when Sarah 
couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Sauchy took it 
into her head that Tom was hurtin’ her, and she flew 
at him like a mad cat. Sarah is the apple of her eye, 
you know.” 

Norman Lang’s pleasant laugh interrupted the tale. 
Running his hand through his disordered hair, he brought 
into the group a handsome face to which the colour and 
smile were restored with marvellous quickness: 


A LONG LANE 


37 


“That accounts for the whole affair! I was beating 
time rather vigorously over Miss Sarah’s head, and her 
aunt thought I meant fight. I’ll be more careful next 
time. Don’t say another word, my dear madam! All’s 
well that ends well! It was funny, though!” with a yet 
heartier laugh. “I thought the house was tumbling about 
my ears. I have not been boxed so soundly before since 
I left off roundabouts. I only hope your daughter is 
no worse for her fright!” 

The respectful accent and sincere concern betokened 
breeding and fine feeling. 

In reviewing the queer happening in his return tramp 
over the snow-fields, the Dominie paid him a merited 
tribute : “There’s gentlehood there, and no mistake ! 
It is a good thing for those young yokels, the Van Dyck 
boys, to have such an example before them, day after 
day.” 

Then he fell to wondering if he had indeed seen some- 
thing in a girl, sitting on the hither side of the third 
sleigh, muffled in a red blanket shawl, which made him 
think of Carrie Corlaer. He was quite sure of the iden- 
tity of the fellow whose arm encircled the red-shawled 
figure, “to keep her from falling out” of the open ve- 
hiclfe. It was a common trick with Valley beaux in the 
circumstances. 

Bogardus — inevitably shortened to “Bogue” — Smer- 
den was the black sheep of the county. He had left 
school at twelve, and refused to go back. Coerced by his 
father, and cajoled by his mother, he condescended to 
attend the Academy for four winters. Then he ran 
away and did not show up in New Jersey for three 
years. Apparently, he had happened upon nutritious 
husks, for he brought home a new suit of clothes, a banjo, 
and enough negro melodies to support his assertion that 


A LONG LANE 


38 

he had toured the United States with a minstrel com- 
pany. Since the prodigal’s restoration to his father’s 
house he had “clerked it” for a few months in a none- 
too-reputable country store up the mountain, quitting 
the position for the yet more equivocal berth of bar- 
keeper in a roadside tavern on the outskirts of Millville. 

He never came to church. In fact, the family held a 
loose connection with a church nearer their home than 
the highly-respectable organisation that had never flour- 
ished more than under the present incumbent of the 
ancient pulpit and parsonage. 

“A sorry lot — root and branch!’ meditated he, aloud, 
as was his wont in lonely places. “And this puppy is 
the worst of the combinery! The idea of his lifting his 
eyes to a Corlaer — a CorlaerT 

He spat it out viciously into the snowy stillness. He 
had reached the Church corner and paused to look down 
the road to the stately homestead beyond the bridged 
river. It was spacious and well-built and draped with 
associations of the founders of home and fortunes, that 
lent it dignity in all the countryside. The master was 
autocratic, and more respected than beloved. Nobody 
doubted his integrity as man and citizen. It might be 
truly asserted that substantial residents of the Valley 
yielded to him ungrudgingly the honor due the leader 
in church and community. 

The Dominie spat again — this time literally — in en- 
tering his own gate: 

“That shunhr 


CHAPTER IV 


T he Dominie’s keen eyes had not played him false 
after all. The wearer of the red blanket-shawl 
was Carrie Corlaer, and the arm that encircled it be- 
longed to Bogardus Smerden. 

Wilhelmus Corlaer’s youngest-born was not habitually 
deceitful. In her own estimation, and according to pop- 
ular report, she was not a derelict in filial piety, albeit 
as frolicsome as a puppy. 

Her father would forbid her association with Bogue 
Smerden. Therefore, she took care that he should not 
know that she ever met him in sequestered places, and 
sat by his side upon mossy cushions by the creek. It 
would be harder to keep from him her participation in 
the sleigh-ride set for the full moon in December. Aware 
that her mother would oppose the prank as firmly, if less 
violently, than her father, she never hinted so much as 
an inclination to join in the “revelry by night.” A 
former schoolfellow, who was a confirmed invalid, lived 
three miles from Kinapeg, and two days before the date 
settled upon for the jaunt to Ryerson’s, Carrie expressed 
a desire to visit the sick girl. She took a hamper of deli- 
cacies from her mother’s storeroom with the dear lady’s 
love, in the roomy sleigh, along with a trunk containing 
enough clothing to last a week if she cared to remain so 
long. Everything depended upon how Mary Worten- 
dyke was. It was a real charity to cheer the poor girl 
up when she had her bad turns ! 

“You could hardly do a kinder thing,” the father 
39 


40 


A LONG LANE 


added to his “good-bye.” And — as the sleigh glided out 
of sight, to the fond mother — 

“After all, the minx has a good heart under her mad- 
cap ways !” 

“One of the tenderest hearts in the world!” assented 
the lady, warmly. “She will settle down after she has 
had her share of fun and frolic.” 

The Wortendykes were in the schemer’s confidence. 
The only son of the widowed mistress of the home was 
to be one of the party, as Carrie knew. The rest was 
plain sailing. Young Wortendyke passed the injunction 
to secrecy along the line of sleighs before the procession 
came in sight of the Corlaer house. The prank of the 
recalcitrant girl added zest to the occasion. She made 
no secret of it at supper and in the succeeding frolic in 
the big parlour of Ryerson’s. There was a famous candy- 
pull, and, while the candy was cooling and stiffening, a 
royal romp over Blind Man’s Buff, Copenhagen, and (in- 
cidentally) kissing-games galore. All was open and 
above-board and had the sanction of hoary tradition. 

The Dominie was awakened from his soundest sleep by 
the resounding chorus and the tintinnabulations of the 
fast-shaken bells, “keeping time, time, time,” — to the 
young voices. 

“We won’t go home ’till morning!” 

roared bass and tenor, bearing up lighter and tuneful 
chords of contralto and treble. 

Then a shout arose that checked the song in full 
blast. 

“Three cheers for the Dominie!” 

The three-times-three was seconded by a harmonious 
blast from fifty pairs of lungs — 

“For he^s a jolly good fellow!” 


A LONG LANE 


41 

The sash of a front window shot up and a big towel 
was shaken violently in response. 

“And why not?” he answered his wife’s shocked ex- 
postulation when the melodious racket swept out of hear- 
ing. “It’s all sheer natural exhilaration of youth and 
health. Tipsy fellows don’t sing like that! I’m proud 
of my boys and girls ! Proud of them I” 

“But the drinking songs, Ed 1 And stopping in front 
of the Parsonage at two o’clock in the morning ” 

^^Three o’clock, my dear! Be accurate! I never had 
a higher compliment than to be told twice over that I am 
a jolly good fellow. I hope and pray I may never give 
them reason to think otherwise!” 

He was deep in his sermon for next Sunday, two days 
after the straw-ride, when Rebecca Jane’s premonitory 
tap was followed immediately by the apparition of her 
dusky face around the edge of the door. In her heart 
of hearts, she considered it “great nonsense, when a body 
knew it was one of the family that wanted to come in.” 
The tap was particularly unnecessary in the case of 
one who hummed incessantly when sweeping and dust- 

ing- 

“Like a Brobdingnagian bumble-bee!” the Dominie had 
grumbled to his wife, years agone. 

The city-bred partner shook her head despairingly. 
“She says she ‘doesn’t know she’s doing it ’til somebody 
speaks of it.’ Her husband drank and was often cruel 
to her and the child. She owned to me once that ‘Sam 
had a most-a-norful temper when he had had a glass of 
hard cider. ’Twas when he was in them fits that I got 
into the way of singing hymns and psalms to myself^ 
makin’ melody in my heart unto the Lord, seein’ there 
was no one else to help me bear it.’ Since she told me 
this I can put up with her music better than before. I 


42 


A LONG LANE 


usually recognise the hymns she is repeating to herself, 
and fancy how they comforted her in the dark ages. 
And they might have been negro melodies, you know ! 
We have much to be thankful for that they are no 
worse.” 

She had hummed — 

“A charge to keep I have ” 

all the way up the stairs to the door of the third-story 
study, where sat the Dominie at his desk before a big 
fire. 

“Mr. Corlaer wishes to see you. Dominie, and if it’s 
convenient, he’d like to come up here, he says.” 

The pastor was on his feet and at the door by the 
time the last syllable left her lips. His senior elder was 
not the man to make an idle request. Leaning over the 
balustrade, he called out, in the freedom of intimate 
friendship : 

“Come right up, won’t you, Mr. Corlaer?” 

Meeting the guest upon the upper landing with cor- 
dial hospitality, he led him into the fire-lit sanctum. 

“Sit down! Sit down! my dear fellow! Take off your 
overcoat ! The thermometer must be in the neighbourhood 
of zero this morning — ^well down to zero!” 

The two men presented a marked contrast as they 
drew chairs to opposite sides of the hearth and faced 
each other. Wilhelmus Corlaer was over six feet in 
height, and so straight that every inch of his stature told 
for all it was worth. His thick, grizzled hair was pushed 
back from his forehead and looked the whiter for the 
warm tan of the strong face. 

The born master of men spoke in feature, expression 
and gesture. In pulling off his driving-gloves and hold- 


A LONG LANE 


43 


ing his hands to the blaze, supple, powerful fingers were 
defined by scarlet gleams between them. 

Have I said that the Dominie of the Kinapeg Church 
was reckoned the best-looking man in the county? A 
head shorter than his visitor, he was every whit as manly 
in carriage, and as symmetrical in build, with square 
shoulders and full chest. His dark hair had not a silver 
line in it; his complexion had the ruddy glow of per- 
fect health ; his voice was round and hearty. 

The term ‘‘all-around man,” had not been invented then. 
Wilhelmus Corlaer phrased it, mentally, in facing the 
friend with whom he had come to take counsel. 

At the last monthly meeting of the Consistory, that 
body had reported favorably upon the petition that the 
projected concert to be given the day after Christmas, 
might be held in the church-building. It was for the 
benefit of the Dorcas Society which ministered to the 
necessities of the few poor members of the church, and 
to the scattered population of operatives in the Valley, 
and about the “Works back in the mountain.” 

The program was unexceptionable in the opinion of the 
grave and reverend body to which it was submitted. 

“The Messenger Bird,” a duet sung by the Misses Cor- 
laer; “What Are the Wild Waves Saying?” a duet for 
tenor and soprano; “Be kind to Thy Mother,” in full 
chorus, and several anthems, carried the day by a unani- 
mous vote, the more enthusiastic because every man pres- 
ent had daughter, son, or sister among the performers. 
Mr. Corlaer had voted with the “ayes” without demur. 
In fact, his approbation was so frankly expressed that* 
the preamble to the business which brought him to the 
parsonage was a surprise that fell just short of a 
shock upon the auditor’s ears. 

“Dominie ! I am not sure that we were wise in opening 


44 


A LONG LANE 


the church-doors to the concert! Something has come 
to my ears to-day that makes me think we would do well 
to reconsider the resolution.” 

Answering his interlocutor’s blank stare as though 
he had voiced his amazement, he went on: 

“You may well be surprised that I should say it. I 
was fully in accord with the spirit and action of the 
meeting, as you know. But last night I was waited upon 
by a deputation of young men: Jacob Blauvelt, Thomas 
Schuyler, Elbert Doremus and John Demarest. They 
have been forward in arranging for the Christmas con- 
cert. It seems that worthless vagabond, Bogardus Smer- 
den, took his banjo along on the sleigh-ride the other 
night, and played and sang at Byerson’s in such fine 
style that he bewitched the party. In talking it over 
afterward, it occurred to the boys and — you may be 
sure — to the girls, too ! that it would be a capital idea 
to work him and the banjo into the concert.” 

“No.'” stormed the Dominie, finding his tongue. 

“Yes, sirT^ contradicted the other, as sturdily. “It 
was seriously proposed to have that jackanapes on the 
platform in front of the pulpit to sing nigger songs to 
his banjo! Of course, I said at once that I did not be- 
lieve you would countenance such desecration of a house- 
of-worship. If you wish to call a meeting of the Con- 
sistory, I have my sleigh here and am ready to drive 
around the neighbourhood to secure a quorum at short 
notice.” 

The Dominie kicked his chair back and strode through 
the room, his fists clenched and his square jaw set like 
a vise. 

“Not at all, sir! not at all! I take it upon myself, 
as President of the Consistory and the pastor of this 
Church, to forbid the thing peremptorily — out of hand! 


A LONG LANE 


45 

It is not to be thought of for a moment! — not for the 
fraction of a second! That’s the end of it!” 

The elder had seen his superior in office at the white 
heat of righteous indignation upon a few former occa- 
sions, but never so wrought up as now. 

“I was sure that you would negative the motion at 
once,” he rejoined, cooling as his friend heated. “In- 
deed, I asked the young fellows why they had come to 
me, and not to you, first. I have no more authority in 
the Consistory, or Church, than any other member.” 

The Dominie stopped suddenly in his tramp, unclosed 
his jaws, as if a sudden thought had dawned upon him, 
then shut them again more tightly than before. Was 
Carrie’s infatuation for the “jackanapes” counted upon 
as a lever to move her father.? 

“None of your young people went on the sleighride .?” 

“None, I am thankful to say! Will is in Pittsburg; 
Margarita was at home with her mother ; Carrie has been 
on a visit to Mary Wortendyke for nearly a week. I 
am glad of it, now that I know a fellow like Bogue Smer- 
den was invited to join the party. I said something of 
this to the boys last night.” 

“How did they take it.?” queried the other with lively 
interest. 

“Oh, they looked sheepishly from one to the other, and 
John Demares t ventured the remark that ‘maybe he 
isn’t as black as he is painted.’ 

“Whereupon, I asked if Smerden expected to black his 
face and wear a woolly wig at the concert. I may have 
been a little tart. But the picture of Bogue Smerden 
and his banjo figuring in a church-concert was rather 
too strong for the old-fashioned father of a family.” 

He was on his feet, buttoning his shaggy great-coat 
over his chest. 


A LONG LANE 


46 

“It’s all right then, Dominie? Shall I report the de- 
cision to the Committee? Or, tell them to drop in and 
get it direct from you?” 

“Neither, thank you! I meant to call upon Mrs. 
Blauvelt this afternoon, anyway. She is not well. I’ll 
contrive to see Jake, who can take my message to the 
others. The notion is preposterous — ^utterly and in- 
sanely preposterous I” 

He “contrived” to interview young Blauvelt in the 
barn when he had taken leave of the invalid. After a 
frank, kindly exposition of the reasons for refusing the 
petition submitted to him, he further contrived to find 
out, without asking a question, that Carrie Corlaer was 
of the moonlight company. 

“It’s safe telling you. Dominie,” grinned the young 
farmer. “You’re the last man on earth to give a secret 
like this away. One and all, we were bound not to let on 
that she was there. We drove down to the Wortendykes’ 
to get her, and dropped her there on the way home. She 
is her father’s idol, for true! But we all know he is as 
hard as nails when, his back is up. Another thing I’ll 
let you on to. It was she who started the plan of having 
Bogue and his banjo. We were ready enough to back her 
up after hearing him. He makes the banjo fairly talk! 
Mother was dead against our going to Mr. Corlaer about 
it. She was shocked at the notion of a banjo and darkey 
songs in church. But Carrie Corlaer and the rest of the 
girls were so set upon it that we promised to see what 
could be done. We knew if Squire Corlaer could be 
brought over, nobody else would say ‘No.’ ” 

The minister may have winced inwardly. His face 
was clear and kind in bidding the youth “Good eve- 
ning!” and until he had passed the first bend in the 
road. 


A LONG LANE 


47 

Then he whistled and said something between his 
locked teeth. 

He was deeply concerned and sadly perplexed by the 
innocent revelation of the farmer-boy respecting the out- 
rageous indiscretions of the unsuspecting parent’s favou- 
rite child. 

“There’s mischief ! there’s downright ruin in this !” 
escaped him. “How far am I justifiable in helping to 
deceive those who ought to put a stop to it?” 


CHAPTER V 


M y lady GREENSLEEVES, alias Smiling 
Spring — was never in unseemly haste to enter the 
Kinapeg Valley. 

The hill-tops were still white with snow in the clear- 
ings separating forest-tracts, one mid-March day, when 
Wilhelmus Corlaer, striding down to the lowlands after 
a visit to the woodcutters at work upon the upper acres 
of his ‘‘grant,” stopped to take off his overcoat and 
throw it over his arm. 

“Whew! it might be May instead of March!” 

The mercury had soared fast since he climbed the 
mountain at ten o’clock of the forenoon. He carried 
into every department of labour the tireless energy and 
rigid attention to detail that had won wealth and fame 
for the Ironmaster. He had made a thorough examina- 
tion of progress and prospects to-day, arriving on foot, 
and tramping over at least two miles of woodland before 
he joined the men at their homely midday meal about 
the fire, over which they boiled coffee brought in their 
pails from home, and fried eggs and bacon to accom- 
pany homemade loaves produced from their baskets. 

The employer was wiser than his generation in urging 
that a full hour should be allowed to the “noon-spell.” 
So, when he passed around his own supply of tobacco at 
the end of the meal, the men took the half-hour’s smoke 
and talk as a thing of course, sitting upon convenient 
stumps with their feet to the fire. 

48 


A LONG LANE 


49 


While work was on, he was an acknowledged martinet. 
Those who had felt most severely the weight of conse- 
quences attendant upon laziness, inefficiency or dishonest 
dealings, never accused him of a refusal to listen to both 
sides of a complaint, or of grinding the faces of the poor. 

Nobody dreamed of playing the courtier. The younger 
men called him “Mr. Corlaer.” To their seniors, he 
was “Wilhelmus,” or “Corlaer.” He may not have been 
popular. It is certain that few thought of loving him. 
He was esteemed for his sterling qualities of mind and 
character, and honored for his services to the community. 

It was three o’clock when he bade a cheery “good-bye” 
to the men and set out upon his homeward way. The 
rude road, kept open by loaded sleds that had plied up 
and down since New Year’s Day, was getting rough 
now. The landholder congratulated him.self upon the 
diligence of gangs that would transport the bulk of 
the lumber to lower levels before the packed snow be- 
came slush, and the slush March mud. He was in a 
genial mood, altogether. Lumber was rising in the mar- 
ket, and he had great store of seasoned timber cut in 
November and stored in sheds in the Valley, ready for 
shipment. His iron works were never in better condi- 
tion. His son’s tour of Pennsylvania foundries and mills 
had brought him back to work in health and spirits, and 
with enlarged ideals of business-methods and the ways 
of the active outer world that must make for his perma- 
nent improvement. 

He had been intolerant of the lad, no doubt. The in- 
tolerance of a successful man for an unambitious son is 
of a bitter and peculiar type. The awakening must have 
come sooner, had he been of a more lively cast of mind, 
more quick to see and more alert in action. 

“More like Carrie, for example!” 


50 


A LONG LANE 


With the thought went a smile rarely seen upon the 
firm mouth, except when she was present, or mentioned. 
The winsome little vixen! She never wheedled him, as 
is the manner of some girls, when she wanted anything. 

She might be tricksome and a tease, but she drove 
straight at her purpose. She had invited herself to go 
with him to Millville last week, and, on the way, told him 
point-blank that she wanted a hundred dollars. 

‘‘Right away and cash down, Daddykin!” she said as 
they neared the town. She had invented the name for 
him, and while it shocked her mother, it tickled him amaz- 
ingly. “I want you to let me go with you into the bank 
and draw the money with my own hands. I’d like to 
play the millionaire just for once. I am not sure that I 
won’t have it paid in silver dollars,” pursing her small 
mouth into a rose-bud reflectively. “Unless you think 
it would be too heavy a load for me to carry?” 

Her deferential appeal overcame the pretence of re- 
proof with which he had meant to meet the request. He 
took her into the bank with him, wrote the cheque under 
her eyes, and led her up to the paying-teller with — 

“Mr. Clarkson I this young lady is taking her first les- 
son in banking.” 

He had further promised the witch not to tell “a liv- 
ing soul that she had the money.” 

“Until I give you leave, you know. There’s a big 
surprise in that hundred dollars for more than one per- 
son.” 

“I trust you, bttle girl!” the father had replied, 
seriously. 

What a treasure he had in the guileless darling who 
made light and music in the old homestead! He ought 
to be a glad and thankful man, this perfect spring day! 

The “wood-road” he had traversed in all its uncon- 


A LONG LANE 


51 

sclonable windings, was joined and intersected by foot- 
paths here and there. The highway was still a quarter 
of a mile away when an abrupt crook in the road brought 
him almost against a grotesque figure, standing stock- 
still at the junction of a narrow trail that twisted out 
of a thicket of scrub oak. It was a woman, so lank and 
so closely swathed in a gown of brown linsey-woolsey that 
she seemed as tall as the man who accosted her pleas- 
antly : 

“Ah, Miss Sauchy! how do you do.? You almost 
frightened me, coming right upon you in this lonely 
place !” 

He held out a friendly hand which she apparently did 
not see. Looking directly in his face, she raised a cov- 
ered basket carried in her right hand. 

“Eggs!” she projected harshly at him. “Marshy 
Morris. Set! Hens!” 

He understood. Marcia Morris was a noted c-hicken- 
raiser, one of a colony of colored folk, clustered about 
the foot of the mountain back of them. Sauchy Van 
Dyck had charge of the poultry-yard upon her brother’s 
farm. She had walked three miles to get a setting of eggs 
with which to “cross the breed” of her flock. 

“Ah!’ he rejoined kindly, as to a child. “I hope they 
will hatch out all right.” Lifting his hat, he would have 
passed, but she barred the path. The prominent grey 
eyes did not leave his. Her large, hard features worked 
painfully. It was like a mental ineffectual birth-pang. 
Her mittened hands pointed up the twisting trail. 

“Somebody there,’! she’ brought out hoarsely. “Lost 
this!” She dragged from her cloak-pocket a horse-shoe. 
“Not find it! Smerden-Isha ? No! No! No!” 

The last monosyllable was almost a shriek. To pacify 
her, the mystified man accepted the horse-shoe. It had 


52 A LONG LANE 

apparently been lost recently. The wet slush was still 
clinging to it. 

“Who, do you say, lost it?” he demanded, articulat- 
ing with forced distinctness. “Smerden-Isha ? — did you 
say? Which way did she go?” 

“No! No! NO!” as excitedly as before. “Get her! 
Run! Fast!” 

It would do no harm to indulge her. She was lash- 
ing herself into a frenzy, all the while gesticulating in 
the direction from which she had come. The tortuous 
pathlet was crossed, a hundred yards or so back, by a by- 
road leading to the outskirts of the village. He would 
lose little time by pretending to obey her. Somebody or 
something had frightened the unfortunate creature, per- 
haps the man whose horse dropped the shoe. The “Smer- 
den-Isha” was no clue. It might well be that some woman 
of the shiftless tribe had played a trick upon the witless 
egg-gatherer. 

All this flashed through his mind in less time than 
a slower brain would have formulated it. 

“All right. Miss Sauchy!” he agreed, again lifting his 
hat. It was instinctive courtesy to the lowly and suf- 
fering that most unequivocally set upon the man the 
stamp of “gentlehood.” “I’ll look for him and give him 
the shoe. He can’t go very fast without it. Good-bye !” 

She was still standing by the clump of scrub-oaks when 
he glanced over his shoulder from the “cross-cut road” 
into which the pathlet debouched. 

Although a direct route to the main thoroughfare, it 
had been little travelled that winter. It was steep, and 
rutted unevenly to dodge clumps of muddy snow and 
projecting roots from the trees that met overhead. 
Swinging the horse-shoe in his hand, as he forged upward, 
the Ironmaster did not wonder that it had been lost. No 


A LONG LANE 


53 


man in his senses would think of driving through the 
short-cut when five minutes more would put him into a 
decent road. The ill-conditioned track plunged down as 
abruptly as it had mounted, and, gaining the summit, 
the pedestrian who, hy now, was berating himself for 
setting out on the silliest of wild-goose-chases, beheld, 
lumbering slowly from hillock to root, a light buggy con- 
taining a man and a woman. The top had been lowered 
to escape collision with tree-boughs, and the first thing 
the pursuer noted was that the man had his arm around 
the woman’s waist, and that her head drooped lovingly 
upon her escort’s shoulder. At the second glance he 
overtook the buggy in three mighty leaps, and had the 
horse by the bit. 

Margarita Corlaer had once angered her sister by say- 
ing that “Bogue Smerden looked like a biscuit doll.” It 
was a face as colourless as unbaked dough that stared 
upon the father of the girl within his embracing arm. 
The violent start that dislodged her head from its rest- 
ing-place brought the dread apparition at the horse’s 
head within the range of Carrie’s vision. She squealed 
shrilly : 

“Father! Father! How did you get here.?” 

“I came for you! Get out of that at once! Do you 
hear me.?” for she had wrapped her arms about her com- 
panion’s neck and was crying to him to “save her!” 

Her father left the horse’s head, strode to the side of 
the carriage, undid the flaccid hold of the lover’s arm, 
and lifted the struggling, screaming girl to the ground 
by force. Then the paralysed tongue of her doughty 
protector moved audibly for the first time: 

“Please, Mr. Corlaer! don’t scold her! We were just 
taking a little ride. I’ll take her right home if you’ll let 
her go !” 


A LONG LANE 


54 

i . . 

If white fury could blanch to a more livid whiteness 
than that which had lent to Wilhelmus Corlaer’s visage 
the aspect of an avenging angel in the sight of the guilty 
pair — it blazed out when, in dragging Carrie from the 
vehicle, he brought to light a new, tightly-stuffed valise, 
marked upon the end which was uppermost — “C. C. ; 
Kinapeg, N. J.” 

He seized it, relentlessly, and threw it to the ground. 
Then he grasped Smerden by the collar and hauled him 
over the wheel. 

‘‘You pitiful, lying hound!*' he hissed hotly between 
clenched teeth. “You would steal my child, and then 
sneak away with a lie in your mouth to save your 
wretched carcass! You are not man enough to stand 
up to your part of the bargain! I couldn’t punish her 
more than to let her go with you! But you will finish 
your little ride alone after I have done with you!” 

He was a head taller than the slim young fellow with 
the doll-face, but he was double his age. Smerden was 
in the habit of speaking of him to his sweetheart as the 
“old gentleman,” and to his comrades as “old Corlaer.” 
He may have dreamed hazily at the crucial moment of 
the scene, of slinking behind the disparity of years as 
his excuse for not resisting the assault. He wriggled 
away from the iron clutch upon his collar, and, in the at- 
tempt, pulled one shoulder and aym out of the coat he 
had unbuttoned on account of the warmth of the day. 

“That is right!” ejaculated the other, savagely, and 
then and there proceeded to belabour with bare hands the 
shirt-clad shoulders and back, the round cheeks, the ears 
and head — in fine, whatever portion of the writhing frame 
presented itself conveniently for his purpose. 

Carrie cried piteously, imploring her father “not to 
hurt him!” until a queer curiosity took hold of the shal- 


A LONG LANE 


55 


low nature. Sobs and entreaties were hushed in the hor- 
rid fascination of watching the fight. For, if the in- 
dividual attacked did not, in modern slang, “put up a 
fight,” he held up his arms to ward off the sledge-ham- 
mer blows rained down upon what might be described as 
the points of least resistance. The movement was balked 
instantly by the capture of both slender wrists in one 
of the Ironmaster’s mighty fists. One hand could do the 
work. It was all over in three or four minutes. The 
coup de grace was dealt in a kick that raised the hapless 
victim clean from the ground and deposited him in a mud- 
puddle. The beaten wretch had not endured dumbly 
“the kicks and cuffs of outrageous fate.” He had begged 
abjectly for mercy, as a school-boy pleads under the 
lash. When landed in the miry gutter, he lay prostrate, 
his face in his hands, shaking with impotent sobs. 

Compassion got the better of Carrie’s curiosity: 

“Father! you haven’t hilled him, have you.^” she 
moaned, clasping her hands, but making no motion to 
approach the forlorn figure. 

“Killed him.?^ No! That kind isn’t so easily killed. 
Get up, you baby!” touching Smerden with his foot. 
“I’U turn your horse around for you !” suiting the action 
to the proposal. “I don’t think you care to go down to 
the village just now. Get along home, and let your 
mother put you to bed!” 

Carrie Corlaer had vowed to her lover an hour ago, 
that “no power in heaven or upon earth could lessen her 
love for him.” 

She had been feeding her imagination upon Mrs. 
Southworth’s novels for six months back, and honestly 
meant every word she said during the first half of the 
“cross-lots” drive. The fair eloper was never more in 
love with her black-eyed, peach-bloom-cheeked swain than 


A LONG LANE 


56 

up to the actual instant of the apparition of the avenger 
at the horse’s head. 

Yet — she positively shrank from laying a finger upon 
the be-mired fright that picked himself up at the victor’s 
bidding, and, wiping the blood from his nose upon a torn 
shirt-sleeve, shambled toward his buggy. He was more 
than beaten. He was ridiculous, and it is love of a 
stouter quality than the Carrie Corlaers of society are 
capable of, that can outlive that debasement of an 
ideal. 

Without the exchange of a parting look or word with 
her late-betrothed, she crept at her father’s heels down 
the dirty road until the man and wagon were left out of 
sight. Then she whined piteously a last appeal: 

“Daddykin, dear! you aren’t going to make me walk 
all the way home?” 

“You, are, going, to, walk, every, step, of, the, way, 
home 1 You may be thankful I don’t make you carry this, 
too!” turning the big valise around to display the in- 
scription. “I suppose this was part of the surprise you 
were to get up with that hundred dollars?” 

He had no answer beyond a fresh outbreak of sobs. 

Dominie de Baun was summoned to the Corlaer house 
that evening by a note from the mother of the wayward 
girl. It was late when he brought home the saddest 
face his wife had ever seen him wear after a pastoral 
call. 

“Tired, darling? yes, and sick! sick at heart!” he 
returned to her tender solicitude. “Come up to my 
study. Somehow I can talk it out best there.” 

Like the tactful wife she was, she asked not a ques- 
tion until he had lighted his pipe and donned the dress- 
ing gown she had warmed at the study-fire. The un- 
seasonable heat of the day had brought to pass a fine 


A LONG LANE 


57 

chilly rain. She had foreseen that his coat would be 
damp. 

Seated by his side, and presently stealing her hand 
into his, she heard the ugly tale. 

By the time the ill-matched pedestrians got home, Car- 
rie was utterly exhausted and had to be put directly to 
bed. A hard nervous chill supervened, and the mother 
pleaded vainly that the family physician be sent for. The 
father peremptorily forbade any interference with his 
plan for getting the truth from the culprit and her ac- 
complices. Somebody had brought the empty new valise 
into the house, and somebody had carried it out full. 
As sternly inflexible as when he had torn her literally 
from her lover’s arms, and as harshly as he had bidden 
her walk the weary mile home over rutted road and 
sodden meadow, — ^he had stood over her with a steady 
cross-examination, rivalling the abhorrent “third-degree” 
of a half-century later, until he tore the truth out of 
her, bit by bit. 

Her own maid had been bribed to convey into her 
young mistress’s chamber the purchases made in Mill- 
ville by Carrie and her confidante, a younger sister of 
Mary Wortendyke. The maid had watched her chance 
to get the packed valise out of the house one night, and 
down to a back lane where Bogardus Smerden was lying 
in wait for it. The Smerden family were in the plot, of 
course. That was not to be wondered at, galling as the 
fact was to the man whose fathers would not have deigned 
to set one of the crew with his flocks. It was a bitter 
morsel to him to glean, little by little, the humiliating 
fact that the intimacy betwen his daughter and the ne’er- 
do-weel whose touch, in her father’s opinion, was a dis- 
grace, was known to half the neighbourhood. 

“He cannot speak of it,” said the pastor to his soul- 


A LONG LANE 


58 

mate, “but his wife told me he is terribly hurt that, as 
he says, not one of his old and trusted friends dropped 
a hint to him of what was going on. 

“That hit me hard! hit me hard! For I heard the 
story, weeks and months ago, and kept it from him. He 
had a right to be warned! a father’s right to protect 
his daughter’s reputation and happiness. I can’t for- 
give myself! cunH forgive myself!” 

“You meant it for the best, dear! Mr. Corlaer is not 
one who would encourage interference in his family af- 
fairs. The poor foolish girl will suffer most.” 

“Don’t you believe it! don’t you believe a word of it! 
She is beginning to sit up and take notice already, and 
now that her father has got all he wants to know out of 
her — she’s as hard as flint and stubborn as a mule. Not 
that she cares much for the fellow. Indeed, her mother 
tells me that she is angry with him for somehow mis- 
managing the elopement she thought would be a fine 
frolic. ‘He didn’t try to keep father from taking me 
away from him!’ she confided to her sister. ‘I wouldn’t 
have gone one step if I had thought he had so little of 
the spirit of a man. He just let father bang him about 
as he might a puppy dog !’ ” 

The Dominie stopped to laugh, and his wife joined in. 

“Maybe the best way of curing her was to show her 
how he’d behave under fire!” she opined. “I am wicked 
enough to wish he had got a worse pummelling.” 

“Don’t be troubled on that score! He was pounded 
into a shivering jelly! I really believe the thing that 
came nearest curing that little fool was the nose-bleed.” 
He laughed out aloud now. “It was providential that 
Mr. Corlaer went up the mountain to-day. More prov- 
idential that he happened upon poor Sauchy on his 
way down. I shouldn’t say ‘happened,’ ” sobering into 


A LONG LANE 


59 


gravity that was akin to solemnity. “Nothin’ ‘happens’ 
in God’s kingdom. I have been racking my brains to 
guess how that three-quarter-witted creature got hold 
of the clue that saved the girl from life-long misery. 
She must have been lurking in the bushes when the young 
folks passed by, ^ind maybe saw the rascal with his arm 
around the girl. Jehoshaphat !” letting his pipe slip 
to the floor. “That’s what she meant by ‘Smerden- 
Isha!’ Corlaer told me that she said it over and over, 
and got more excited each time. That was it, as sure 
as you’re alive. She didn’t want the fellow to make her his 
wife !” 

In his excitement, he fell to pacing the floor, plucking 
at his lower lip, and frowning violently. 

“I’ve got it! I’ve struck the trail! My dear!” Com- 
ing back to his bewildered wife, he took her face be- 
tween his hands and stooped to kiss her, almost rever- 
ently: “We are told that praise is perfected out of 
the mouths of babes and sucklings. It is yet more 
wonderful that, through the babblings of this poor 
afflicted creature — a semi-idiot, as she is called — should 
be brought deliverance of a whole family from disgrace — • 
perhaps the salvation of a soul! Truly it is the Lord’s 
dealings, and it is marvellous in our eyes — marvellous 
in our eyes!” 


CHAPTER VI 


E very family of considerable size has its paragon. 

Every community has a show-piece that may be la- 
belled ‘‘Phenomenon.” 

Timothy O. Brouwer, Esq., was at once the Paragon 
of his family and the Phenomenal human product of his 
native county. His birthplace was among the foot-hills 
that hemmed in the fertile, sunken plain on the west. A 
story-and-a-half house, framed with axe-hewn logs, and 
clapboarded with rough planks, was the abode, for a 
score of years, of worthy Jan Brouwer, his wife and seven 
children. 

He tilled fifteen acres of unpromising land, thick-set 
with stones of assorted sizes. He herded sheep upon 
the rugged foot-hills, and burned into charcoal timber 
of his own felling. His thrifty vrow raised poultry and 
pigs ; wove into linsey-woolsey the wool shorn from the 
sheep, and made every garment worn by the family. 
All the children were duly sent to the nearest school 
from the time they could trudge two miles a day. Dutch 
phlegm made young and old disdainful of public opinion 
and contemptuous criticism of their frugal habits, and 
the straits to which they were subjected by downright 
poverty. Dutch valour stimulated the least of the tribe 
to hold his own against adversity. 

When Timothy O., the eldest boy, disappeared from 
his accustomed haunts, it leaked out that he had gone 
to sea with a compatriot of his father who had found 

60 


A LONG LANE 


6i 


his way, in some unaccountable manner, to the cabin in 
the Jerseys, and offered to take the son of his friend as 
cabin-boy on a three-years’ cruise. 

The aforesaid leakage was succeeded by the statement 
that shipmaster and cabin-boy had brought up some- 
where in Brazil, and gone into some sort of money-making 
business in that benighted district of darkest South Amer- 
ica. 

In after years, when the Family Paragon had bur- 
geoned into the neighbourhood Phenomenon, the de Bauns 
— husband and wife — ^who were naturally and unavoid- 
ably Dickens-devotees, used to borrow freely from Caleb 
Plummer’s talk of his boy “in the Golden South Amer- 
icas.” As the Brouwer boys grew into husky work- 
men, and the girls rivalled the mother in housewifely 
arts, no secret was made by them of the fact that 
‘“Brother Timothy” was softening the rough places of 
their daily existence. A horse and wagon made church- 
going feasible for “mother and the girls”; they dressed 
“more like other folks,” remarked the neighbourhood gos- 
sips, and “had it easier” in every way. Before the old 
Dutchman was gathered to his fathers, he had removed, 
with all his flock, to a comfortable farmhouse, so near 
to the church that the squat tower with the steady finger 
pointing heavenward was the first thing upon which J an’s 
eyes opened daily for the last ten years of his blameless 
existence. He closed them in such great peace as is 
the heritage of the Father’s children. For his eldest- 
born laid his fingers tenderly upon the stiffening lids 
that hid the unseeing eyes, the last gaze of which was 
directed to the returned exile’s face. 

He had been in North America then for six years, a 
prosperous New York merchant, with the courage of his 
conviction that he was a Paragon, Phenomenon and Non- 


62 


A LONG LANE 


pareil, incorporated into one self-made man. He had 
married an Englishwoman in Brazil, and brought home 
with him three children. His wife presented him with 
twins six months after he took possession of the hand- 
some town house. When she died, he mourned her all 
the more sincerely because he said little of his desola- 
tion. Instead of engaging housekeeper and governess, 
he besought his two younger sisters — aged respectively 
twenty and twenty-two — to live with him and take charge 
of the motherless children. 

“There must have been a strain of good blood there 
somewhere — probably in a remote generation,” the Dom- 
inie and his wife agreed in thinking, twenty years later. 

By then, father and mothel* had left Timothy O. 
Brouwer the head of the family with respect to seniority. 

His eldest son was now in charge of “our Branch 
House in Rio.” In dropping the “Janeiro,” he implied 
a hail-fellow, well-met familiarity with the foreign capi- 
tal of “the Golden South Americas.” He had “erected” 
(his word) what came so near being, in the eyes of the 
community, a palatial residence, that nobody cavilled at 
the tremendous emphasis he stamped upon “Mt House” 
when the word formed itself upon his lips. 

A second son was partner in “our New York House.” 
Grace, the eldest of the three sisters, was happily mar- 
ried to a New Yorker. The twins, Ruth and Rhoda, 
were rather handsome, well-educated, somewhat accom- 
plished, and — as might have been anticipated — decid- 
edly dashing. The aunts were intelligent, modest, and 
less provincial than would have seemed to be inevitable 
from their secluded lives. They brought to bear upon 
the difficulties of their novel environment the earnest in- 
dustry that had gained for them prizes in the country 
school-house, and proficiency in every branch of domestic 


A LONG LANE 


63 

routine. The problematic strain of good blood that was 
the key to the puzzle in Mrs. de Baun’s mind, may have 
accounted in part for the fact that when the HOUSE was 
finished and furnished, the spinsters twain fitted into the 
place of hostesses with quiet grace that amazed the ‘‘old 
families,” and won respect from all classes. 

The renovated farm-house was now tenanted by a 
younger brother, Joachim, and two elder sisters, Amelia 
and Dorcas. They made no secret of the truth that 
“Brother” supported them, one and all, and did it un- 
grudgingly. Joachim was forty-five years old when he 
became the nominal protector of his sisters and head of 
the home. At twenty, he had been crippled by a falling 
tree. He was honest and industrious, with a genius for 
gardening. 

He sent prize turnips and carrots to the county Agri- 
cultural Fair, 'and bordered the patches of vegetables with 
rows of tulips and roses that arrested the eyes and steps 
of passers-by. 

By degrees, the Valley population fell into the way 
of speaking of the four maiden-sisters as “The Old La- 
dies Brouwer,” and their resident brother as “Mr. Joa- 
chim.” The chief of the clan was in everybody’s mouth, 
“Timothy O.” I doubt if man, woman, or child ever 
bothered his or her head to inquire for what interme- 
diate name the “O” stood. 

If Wilhelmus Corlaer’s wealth, enterprise, education, 
and the prestige of ancestry made him the backbone of 
the community, Timothy O. Brouwer impersonated the 
muscles. The de Bauns shook with laughter behind the 
parsonage-blinds as the wife said, “Swelling wisibly be- 
fore my wery eyes,” when the magnate swaggered along 
the road, promoted by him and his HOUSE to the dignity 
of an Avenue. 


A LONG LANE 


64 

“It isn’t the Fable of the Frog and the Ox over 
again,” answered the husband. “He is the whole Ox, 
and competing with himself.” 

Competition reached its height, socially, in the scheme 
he broached boldly at a called-Consistory meeting from 
which the pastor was respectfully requested to with- 
draw, temporarily. Timothy O. was neither elder nor 
deacon. Once, when the possibility of election to the 
deaconate was tentatively broached in his hearing, he 
negatived the suggestion definitely. 

“No ! friends and neighbors ! I can serve the church 
and township more effectively in my own way, time and 
manner. Call me a ‘privateersman’ if you will. We 
saw a good deal of execution done down in Rio by pri- 
vateersmen. Call upon me for advice or funds when 
you need me. I trust I shall never be found backward 
in such exigencies.” 

When the Dominie had retired (temporarily) the pri- 
vateersman unfolded his secret orders (self-imposed). 

On the first of May, or thereabouts, and on the first 
of November, it was the custom of the parish to give 
a Donation-party at the Parsonage. It was, now, the 
first week in April, and for two months, preparations 
for the Spring “function” had been in hand. The new 
and grandest feature of the occasion was the presenta- 
tion of an Album quilt to the Dominie’s wife. The proj- 
ect was kept from the Parsonage household — an easier 
task than one might be inclined to believe who is un- 
familiar with the workings and windings of such organi- 
zations. The Kinapeg' people had proved their ability 
to keep other and more dangerous secrets than the plan 
of the prospective presentation. 

Every man in the Consistory could have described the 
quilt, now nearing completion. The squares were of 


A LONG LANE 


65 

uniform size, of the best quality of Wamasutta muslin. 
In the centre of each was a five-pointed star, “applied” 
to the muslin, and between the points, wherever the 
maker chose to put it, was her autograph, wrought in 
chain stitch with turkey-red thread. Strips of turkey- 
red separated and defined the several squares. 

In addition to this central attraction of the party, 
there were to be the customary offerings, surreptitiously 
introduced into the barn, corn-crib, hay-“barrack,” 
kitchen, cellar and larder pertaining to the parsonage. 
It was a standing rule that the woodshed, and, in the 
Autumn, the coalbin, should be filled. 

All this the privateersman took for granted. His 
master-mind had conceived a project that would stamp 
this particular Donation-party in golden letters upon 
the memory of grateful pastor and generous donors. 

Life-Insurance policies were comparatively new at that 
day. Timothy O. was the first man in the county to 
take out one upon his own life. 

“For ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS, 
my dear sir!” he said to Mr. Van Dyck, introducing 
the aforesaid bantling of his teeming brain. “Should I 
die to-morrow and my estate be found to be bank- 
rupt — ” smiling broadly at the daring hypothesis — 
“there would still be enough left to keep my family from 
poverty. I have come to talk with you to-day about 
getting out a policy of insurance upon the Dominie’s 
life, for the benefit of his wife. Of course he will have 
to be taken into confidence. On account of the medical 
examination and all that, you know. But it’s to be a 
surprise for her. It really seems providential that the 
date of the Donation this year happens to be Mrs. de 
Baun’s birthday. My plan is to get out a policy for 
five thousand dollars. The premium will be one hundred- 


66 


A LONG LANE 


and-fifteen dollars. I shall head the subscription-list 
with fifty, and I guarantee that Corlaer will do some- 
thing handsome. Yes! I know it has to be done every 
year, but you may count upon me for a cool fifty as 
long as I am above-ground, and my family will do as 
well afterwards. My notion is to have the affair at my 
HOUSE!” 

He paused for a long second to let the announcement 
do its work upon the stunned auditor. The latter gasped 
and swallowed hard, his eyes bulging from the sockets. 
Before he found words, the magniloquent discourse 
went on; 

“Yes, sir! there must be nothing mean about the Occa- 
sion. The whole congregation will be invited. We must 
have Mrs. Van Dyck upon the committee of ladies who 
will present the quilt to the Dominie’s lady. Mrs. Cor- 
laer and, maybe, one of my sisters, will assist her. As 
the party will be in My House it would be perhaps only 
proper that I should present the policy to Mrs. de Baun. 
All those things can be settled later. The first step is 
to secure the money for the policy.” 

A shrewd third party to the interview might have 
gained an inkling of the business-methods by which Tim- 
othy O. had climbed to opulence. When he had an end 
to gain he knew how to butter fingers, and to play cun- 
ningly with the tongue upon the weakness of his inter- 
locutor. He had settled in his mind what sum it was 
meet for the farmer-miller to subscribe. Knowing that 
his neighbour never decided a business-matter without pri- 
vately consulting his wife, he secured the active interest 
of both in his project, and carried to the next house 
in his route the assurance of their cordial co-operation. 

All went merry as a chime of wedding bells up to the 
actual moment of the presentation of the Policy. The 


A LONG LANE 


67 

great rooms were thronged with parishioners, dressed in 
their very best clothes. Hut and hall had yielded their 
quota of curious guests. Timothy O. boasted to his 
confreres of the ease with which he had secured the requi- 
site sum. 

He exuded happiness and patronage from every pore 
of his perspiring body, as he stood in the centre of the 
front parlour, in full view of the crowded hall and the 
back-room, after the quiet presentation of the quilt was 
over. Four women — characterized by the host as ‘‘lead- 
ing ladies of the congregation’’ — had held the four cor- 
ners of the big construction, and their four daughters 
upbore the intermediate sagging stretches of red-and- 
white. Mrs. Corlaer said, simply and clearly, that the 
women of the church and parish asked Mrs. de Baun’s 
acceptance of the token of their affection, and the pas- 
tor’s wife, with the like well-bred composure, thanked her 
and those she represented. Then four men, appointed 
by the host, swept the quilt into folds and carried it 
out of sight. 

The great Event and the Man of the Hour had the 
centre of the stage. 

Timothy O. had mounted a stool that he might not 
be unseen by the most distant unfortunate of the throng. 
Foremost in the circle, a few feet from him, were the pastor 
and his consort. Both were smiling undisguisedly — an 
acute observer might have imagined — amusedly. The 
Dominie had confided to his helpmate, for the hundredth 
time before they left their home that evening, his convic- 
tion that the cultivation of a sense of humour should be 
included in the curriculum of every theological seminary 
in the land. 

“If the truth were known, it would be found that you 
and I owe life and reason to the blessed truth that we 


68 A LONG LANE 

have the ability to pluck fun out of the nettle of daily 
Parsonage Life.” 

And the wife replied, ‘‘Ed. de Baun! you never said 
anything half so wise in your sermons!” 

Nobody could have accused them of laughing at the 
scene, and the principal actor therein. Everybody could 
see that they were enjoying it — or something else — 
hugely. 

“Friends, neighbours and acquaintances!” thundered 
the big voice, as the big hand held aloft a folded paper. 
“We have collected here this evening on what I have 
meant shall be the happiest sort of an Occasion. I don’t 
need an introduction to a single individual one of you. 
Before I enter upon the business of the hour, I must 
tell you how glad I am to see every one of you. I sa^I — 
you all know how it happens that I, a poor farmer’s boy, 
should be able to entertain you in what travellers and 
city-people have designated as a ‘Mansion.’ I have cast 
in my lot with you, as you have reason to know. I 
have wealthy and influential friends in the city in whose 
homes I and mine would be more than welcome. I might 
have filled these Rooms — ” a large gesture of both hands 
expressive of their dimensions and appointments — “with 
the rich and great of the earth, as one might say. In- 
stead of which, like the Prince in Scripture our pastor 
read about last Sunday, I have gone into the highways 
and hedges and gathered thence my guests'' ^ 

The Dominie and his wife were not smiling now. His 
jaw had dropped slightly, and his features had the rigid- 
ity of one shocked into incredulity of the evidence of 
his senses. His wife had paled suddenly, and her eyes 
were fixed upon the wide smile of the orator. 

“My worst enemy can’t accuse me of purse-pride, or 

* A literal report. 


A LONG LANE 


69 


snobbery. And this I will say for each and every one 
of you — in the campaign I have made in the effort to 
raise the premium upon the Life Insurance of which I 
am now going to speak, I had the easiest time I ever 
had in collecting money. I believe not a dollar was 
given unwillingly. That speaks well for the Kinapeg 
folks. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I present to Mrs. de 
Baun, the respected and beloved wife of our respected and 
beloved pastor, this policy for five thousand dollars, 
as a token of the esteem in which we hold her and her 
reverend partner. We will pay the premium every year 
as long as we live, and provide for the payment thereof 
in case of our respective demises. 

“We all regret, I am sure, the absence from this Fes- 
tive Occasion of our honoured citizen, Mr. Wilhelmus Cor- 
laer. He was called unexpectedly up to the ‘Works’ to- 
day, hoping to be back in season to join in our conviv- 
ialities. I hope he may yet appear in our midst, but 
he has missed the gems of the occasion. I mean, of 
course, the Presentations.” 

He got down from the stool and handed the folded 
paper to Mrs. de Baun. She bowed silently and her hus- 
band stepped to the impromptu rostrum: 

“Dear, dear friends !” The round, sonorous voice con- 
trasted so gratefully with the bovine roar that had filled 
halls and rooms a moment before, that an involuntary 
sigh of relief fluttered through the audience. “I do not 
try to thank you for this new proof of loving kindness 
to me and mine. 

“Words do not come easily to a man whose heart is 
full and running over, as mine is just now. I thank the 
God and Father of us all, every day, that I can say 
proudly, ‘I dwell among my own people.’ 

“Such people, as I verily believe, no other man ever 


70 


A LONG LANE 


had the joy of serving. I pray, too, that He will help 
me to serve you, in His name, and in His fear, from 
this time forward, better than I have ever done before. 
I speak for my wife and for our children in acknowledging 
the unfailing goodness that- has starred our united life 
in Parsonage and Church. God ’bless and reward you, 
one and all!” 

‘‘It was oil upon the troubled waters I” whispered Mrs. 
Corlaer when the pastor reached her through the tossing 
sea of outstretched hands and the April mists of tearful 
eyes that greeted the close of the brief address. “I am 
glad — and sorry — that my husband is not here.” 

“/ am unfeignedly sorry!” was the rejoinder. “I 
needed him to help me out. I hope to see him yet to- 
night. He told me he might be detained late at the 
Works, but he would make quick work of the drive home. 
I wish I could be by when he hears the report of the 
orations !” 


CHAPTER VII 


A COMPLICATION of mishaps had thwarted Wil- 
helmus Corlaer’s intention to be at home in season 
to dress for the Donation party. A man from the city, 
who had an appointment to meet him at twelve o’clock, 
did not appear until two; the foreman had a long and 
tedious report to render, and much need of counsel, 
and the men were to be paid off, the morrow being the 
end of the month. 

Altogether, the day was trying to spirit and to flesh, 
and the various hindrances were peculiarly exasper- 
ating to a man with strictly punctual habits and with 
scant charity for shiftlessness and shortcomings. It 
was well that he was alone in the homeward journey, 
he confessed to himself, in gathering up the reins at eight 
o’clock. 

‘T ought to have been in Kinapeg an hour ago,” he 
said to the foreman, in refusing his invitation to sup- 
per, “I can’t waste a minute more!” 

‘‘Your horse will take you down the mountain in less 
time than any other animal in the county could!” was 
the foreman’s parting remark. “I wish 1 were going to 
ride behind him!” 

Then it was that the horse’s master congratulated 
himself inwardly that he had horse, carriage and road to 
himself. He knew when he was utterly out of sorts — no 
man better — and he would need all of the twelve miles 
lying between him and home, to work himself into a toler- 
ably decent mood. 


71 


72 


A LONG LANE 


The tribute to his horse was a drop of healing oint- 
ment. He was a powerful bay stallion, with a pedigree 
longer than that of the Corlaers. Carrie had named 
him “Sultan,” and the title went well with his superb 
action. The moon was at the full. Mr. Corlaer had 
gone a mile before he bethought himself that the Dona- 
tion party must be in progress by now. A grim smile 
twisted his mouth at the recollection. 

“No great loss without some small gain!” he muttered. 
“I shall miss Timothy O.’s speech!” 

The road took an abrupt turn at that point, and the 
horse shied away from a black figure standing well out 
into the highway. 

It retreated to the side of the track at the horse’s 
plunge, but raised an arm in entreaty, or warning. Cor- 
laer reined up and spoke sharply, 

“Who are you? And what do you want?” 

He saw now that it was a woman who advanced tot- 
teringly to the side of the buggy. The first words told 
him she was a negro. 

“I suttenly is mighty sorry I skeered yo’ horse, Mars- 
ter ! I never meant to !” 

“I know that! But you stopped me. What do you 
want ?” 

“Maybe yo’ heered of the fun’ral on de top o’ de 
mounting to-day? A coloured lady ’twas dat died — ^Mrs. 
Daphne Mo’ton was her name.” 

“I heard something of it. Well?” 

“She was my a’nt, suh. I come all de way from Mill- 
ville early dis mawnin’, on a-puppose fur to ’tend dat 
fun’ral. A man name’ Jack Sutton, what live in Kinapeg 
— he done brung me up de mounting, and he promise 
sure and sutten, to come back fo’ me by free o’clock. 
When he ain’ come, I started fur to walk down to meet 


A LONG LANE 


73 

him. I jus’ got to get back to Millville to-night! I 
thought maybe you, my marster, mought give me a hf’ 
down’s fur as Kinapeg, seein’ you’re maybe goin’ dat 
way. I know a man thar what will take me down to 
Millville, ef so be we don’t meet dat low-down nigger 
Jake Sutton.” 

“I know him, and we are not likely to meet him,” re- 
sponded the listener, dryly. ‘‘He is probably dead drunk 
in a fence-corner. I will take you as far as Kinapeg. 
Get in! Whoa, sir!” to the dancing horse. “You see 
you startled him, and he is very spirited. Are you all 
right now.^” as she seated herself lumberingly beside 
him. “Go on!” 

At the word and the slackened rein, Sultan gave a 
great bound, and set off down the hill at a half-gallop, 
then steadied into a fast trot at his driver’s command. 

“He’s suttenly mighty gayly!” commented the pas- 
senger, admiringly. 

Her companion did not answer, and not a word passed 
between them for two miles more. Wilhelmus Corlaer 
could recollect when there were ex-slaves in his family — 
trusted old servants who were under age at the date of 
the emancipation of negroes in New Jersey, and who had 
voluntarily remained in the service of their former own- 
ers for the rest of their lives. One had nursed him from 
babyhood. He called her “Mammy” — after the old cus- 
tom — ^when he was a grown man. The memory touched 
a tender spot in his heart. 

“You say you live in Millville. You talk like a Vir- 
ginian. You were not born at the North, were you.^^” 
he broke the silence by saying. 

His passenger started and shifted her position: 

“Naw, suh!” she drawled, the southern accent more 
pronounced than ever before. “I was born an’ raise’ 


74 


A LONG LANE 


down in Virginny. How come you guess so true? Mos’ 
folks say I talk mightily like de Yankees” — giggling 
hysterically. 

Corlaer did not reply at once. When he did speak, 
his manner was abstracted, his tone cold. 

“I have travelled in Virginia and have friends there.” 

“Yas, suh?” 

The interrogative inflection invited further commu- 
nication, but she got none. Her abrupt start had 
twitchfed her skirt aside, and revealed a stout boot that 
was never intended for a woman’s foot. The gentleman 
traced it above the ankle and swiftly scrutinized the rest 
of the figure. It was dressed in deep mourning. In the 
clear moonlight, he even observed that she wore black 
cotton gloves. A crepe veil depended from her bonnet and 
reached her lap. The cotton gloves held fast to the one 
incongruous feature of her attire — a muff* of raccoon or 
fox-skin, as shabby as it was out of season. If she 
wore it for warmth, why not put her hands within, in- 
stead of upon it? As he glanced again, the moonbeams 
struck brightly upon something that flashed like metal. 

To suspect with Wilhelmus Corlaer was to act, and 
without loss of time. 

If the chance passenger were a man in disguise; if 
that were the butt of a pistol, or the blade of a dirk, 
gleaming in the stray ray that slanted across the crepe 
veil, to the metallic object tucked into the useless muff — 
the sooner the drama was ended, the safer. 

In response to the irritable jerk upon the curb, Sultan 
reared upright, and pranced in sidelong zigzags that ap- 
parently angered the driver to fury. With a harsh 
shout at the unruly beast, he caughit at his whip, missed 
it and knocked it clear out of the socket to the ground. 

“I can’t see what has got into this horse to-night!” 


A LONG LANE 


75 

he ejaculated, wrathfullj. **Whoar to the mettled 
creature who was once again upon his hind-legs, and 
snorting with rage or fear. “I am sorry to trouble you 
to pick up my whip, but you see I cannot let him go 
for a second. Whoa, sirP* bringing him with difficulty 
to a stand in the middle of the road and pulling hard 
with both hands upon the reins. 

Grasping her skirts with one hand, the woman leaped 
the wheel with the agility of a cat, and stooped for the 
whip. As she touched it, her ears were smitten by the 
mad beat of hoofs, the roar of wheels. Carriage and 
driver were out of sight before she could turn around. 

In another moment, the mountain-road was as still 
as death in the white moonlight. The very echo of flying 
feet and the rush of wheels had died away from the 
woods. 

His master’s knowledge that foot-pads seldom travel 
single kept Sultan at his best speed until the foot of 
the mountain was gained. At the first leap that left 
his passenger in the road, Mr. Corlaer had seen that the 
muff was in the bottom of the buggy, and put his foot 
upon it. Arrived within sight of the lights of his valley 
home, he brought the slackened speed of the flight to 
a halt, and examined the article at his leisure. It was 
old and worn, but big enough to secrete a double-bar- 
relled pistol. The fugitive held it up in the radiance 
flooding the sleeping valley. 

‘‘Loaded !” he said aloud, thrusting the ugly thing 
back into the muff. “Who hates me enough to want to 
kill me in cold blood 

He was not debating the question when his wife, daugh- 
ters and son returned from the “Occasion.” He had 
ordered supper and eaten it, and sat at his desk in the 
sitting-room, seemingly engrossed in the accounts spread 


A LONG LANE 


76 

before him. He had never appeared more interested in 
reports of church gatherings than in that which the three 
rendered in unison. If he did not laugh as heartily as 
they had hoped he would at the climax of the oration, 
it was hardly to be expected that an officer of the church 
and a neighbour, who descried the excellent traits and 
valued the generosity of the self-made man, should not 
be mortified at the exhibition of colossal conceit and vain- 
glory which must discount his worth in the eyes of the 
entire community. 

“Don’t look so solemn, Daddykin !’ protested irre- 
pressible Carrie, hanging herself about his neck, as they 
parted for the night. “It was the funniest thing that 
ever was, just to see how the people looked when he 
told them he scraped them up from the highways and 
hedges to ‘furnish the feast with guests.’ ” 

She screamed afresh at the remembrance. Her father 
undid her arms and put her aside gently, but decid- 
edly. 

“Mr. Brouwer is a good man, daughter. I can never 
forget that he shares his wealth with his brothers and 
sisters, and cheerfully. He is hberal-handed and kind- 
hearted. I do not think he has an enemy in the world. 
I wish I could say the same for your father !” 

He sighed heavily in putting her aside, and walked 
out of the room. 

“I have made up my mind to one thing!” said Carrie, 
as she let down her blond tresses and drew them fondly 
through her fingers, eyeing the fair picture reflected in 
the mirror. “When I get married, it won’t be to a wet- 
blanket of a man, who keeps his foot all the time upon 
the soft pedal. I mean to have my swing. I’ve never 
had it in all my life.” 

Accustomed as Margarita was to her light-headed 


A LONG LANE 


77 


sister’s vagaries, she could not comprehend how she could- 
talk of marriage and men with the recollection in her 
mind of the disgraceful episode hardly two months old. 

“I don’t think it kind or respectful for you to speak in 
that way of a father who is loving and kind to you — 
if to nobody else!” she uttered in her best elder-sisterly 
manner. ^^You ought to be the last person on earth to 
criticise him.” 

“Who said anything about father retorted Miss 
Saucebox, turning her head to thrust the tip of a bright 
red tongue at the mentor. “I was thinking of Dominie 
de Baun! Mr. Lang and I were having a jolly time in 
a corner to-night, when up comes my reverend gentleman 
and took a hand. I asked him if it wasn’t true that 
everybody supposed Mr. Lang and Sarah Van Dyck were 
engaged. ‘Except,’ I said, ‘the people who believe that 
she and my brother will make a match some day.?’” 

“Carrie Corlaer I you never said that! I can’t believe 
that even you could so far forget yourself as to make 
such a speech. And just now, when all of us ought to 
be particularly discreet! You will start everybody to 
talking again!” 

Since that first horrible day when her father dragged 
her home, a criminal to be tortured by his cross-examina- 
tion, and the subsequent conviction of an unpardonable 
offence against family pride, filial duty and social laws — 
the offender had met with the indulgence usually awarded 
to the returned prodigal from the days of Absalom down. 
Both parents had been more gentle with her than ever 
before, tolerant of her foibles and solicitous of her health, 
which must, according to maternal reasoning, be imper- 
illed by hysterical weeping that endured for a night, and 
the consciousness that she was under paternal ban. The 
father did not relax his severity of tone and look for 


A LONG LANE 


78 

three whole days. Then, won over by the pale face and 
wet eyes to which the mother had succumbed within an 
hour, he gradually fell into the old ways of petting and 
condoning that had spoiled her all her life. 

It was, therefore, perfectly natural that she should 
be confounded and incensed by her sister’s audacious re- 
buke. 

With flaming cheeks, and eyes too bright for tears, 
she faced the offender: 

‘‘Isn’t that too much like girls that never have a beau 
and are ready to tear out the eyes of one who may have 
any man she chooses by lifting a finger? Your prudish 
airs are just plain spite and envy. Don’t you suppose 
I saw you looking at me as I sat in the corner 
of the dining-room with Mr. Lang all-attention, and 
ready to fall at my feet if I gave him the least bit of 
encouragement? That sort of thing won’t go down with 
me, Margarita Corlaer! Yes! and I gave your precious 
Dominie a dig, too, let me tell you 1” 

Contorting her pretty features into a ludicrous, if dis- 
tant likeness of her pastor, she went on in a fancied imi- 
tation of his voice and speech: 

“ ‘I don’t listen to gossip, Carrie,’ said the saintly 
gentleman. ‘You know “They say” is generally half-a- 
lie. I shut my ears to such prattle.’ He meant to in- 
sult me, but I laughed in his face.” 

“Girls!” said Mrs. Corlaer at the opening door, “I 
must ask you not to talk any longer. I want your father 
to go to sleep. He is fairly worn out, and the sound 
of your voices reaches our room when the house is so 
still.” 

“I’m sure 7 have no temptation to say a word more!” 
Carrie began, braiding her hair with rapid fingers. “And 
I hope Margarita has finished lecturing me because Mr. 


A LONG LANE 


79 

X.ang paid me more attention to-night than he showed 
her. Mercy knows, I am not trying to catch him!” 

‘‘My child!” remonstrated the mother, “you are tired 
and excited. You will be more like yourself in the morn- 
ing.” 

With the admonition went a beseeching glance to Mar- 
garita. 

The story is so old that it would be stale but for the 
continual repetition in every generation and in Christian 
homes. That the sinner may be reinstated in the self- 
conceit that wrought his ruin, is of prime importance. 
The basic fact that if he had not spent all his substance, 
and his stomach had not revolted at the diet of butter- 
less husks, he would probably never have bethought him- 
self of the comfortable quarters he had deserted for the 
foreign tour — weighs nothing with parents, rejoicing in 
the sight of the belovM face and compassionate of the 
wasted form. 

Carrie’s was the brightest face at the breakfast table. 
Margarita had had her “little weep” upon her confidential 
pillow and the swollen eyes betrayed it. Will hurried 
through the meal to take his father’s place at the foun- 
dry for an hour or two, having been informed that the 
senior had something on hand that would detain him at 
home. 

Mr. Corlaer looked grayer and older by ten years than 
on yesterday morning. He drank two cups of strong 
coffee, and said little while he tried to eat. He had con- 
siderately postponed the revelation to his wife of the 
events of the journey down the mountain, but her instinct 
told her there was thunder in the air. YHien he was 
ready, he would speak. Carrie prattled fitfully, in dis- 
posing of a comfortable breakfast. It was no concern 
of hers if other people chose to be miserable and sulky. 


8o 


A LONG LANE 


Experience told her that they would ‘‘come around”' in 
due time. Nobody was cross to her long. 

She whiled away an hour in the garden, bantering 
the gardener, and gathering violets to fill the great glass 
bowl that stood upon the hall-table all the spring. En- 
tering by the back-door, with her apron heaped with 
purple-and-white blooms, she was met by a maid with a 
message from her mother: 

“She’s been calling you all over the house. Miss Carrie. 
She wants to see you in her room the minute you come in.” 

The daughter, lengthened the minute by waiting to 
have the bowl emptied and washed for the reception of 
the fresh supply of flowers. She turned the contents of 
her apron into it, and carried it with her in obeying 
the summons. She would get water in her mother’s room 
and arrange them there. As she skipped up the wide 
staircase, she carolled blithely; 

“O, whistle and I’ll come to you, my lad, 

Tho’ father and mother and all should go mad!” 

She had sung the Scotch ballad a dozen times to 
the accompaniment of Bogardus Smerden’s banjo, and 
as often while Norman Lang played the piano. It is 
quite certain that neither of the gallants was in her 
shallow mind, or that she linked the words with the esca- 
pade that may have been said to illustrate them. 


CHAPTER VIII 


W ILHELMUS CORLAER sat directly opposite the 
door which was ajar, and his daughter’s eyes fell 
upon him as she pushed it open. He sat still and looked 
at her. Her instant and disrespectful thought was “Like 
a graven image!” She had advanced but a few steps 
when her mood changed. Her father’s stern silence, the 
portentous gaze that terrified the culprit more than a 
cyclone of invective could have done, were all too familiar 
to those under his rule. It froze her on the threshold. 
She had never made a fairer picture than that framed 
in the door during her moment of consternation. She 
was dressed in white ; her rust-coloured hair was an aure- 
ole for the face from which even fright had not driven 
the rose-tints heightened by out-door air and sun. She 
held the bowl, crowned with the white-and-purple violets, 
directly in front of her, as one might present an expia- 
tory offering to an offended judge. 

Thus, while one might have counted ten. Then, sense 
and hardihood returned. 

“Why, daddykin!” gasping out a weak little laugh. 
“You frightened the life out of me! What is the mat- 
ter Are you sick? Or has some dreadful thing hap- 
pened?” 

Setting her bowl down upon a stand near the window 
by which she now perceived her mother sat, work basket 
on knee, she began to arrange the flowers mechanically, 
but with a show of nonchalance worthy of a more finished 
actress. 


81 


82 


A LONG LANE 


“Emmeline said you wanted to see me, mother.” 

Wilhelmus Corlaer’s complexion had been zinc-grey 
until she plunged her hands into the heap of violets. A 
red torrent surged up to the high temples. Without 
rising, he seized the bowl with one sweep of his arm and 
threw the flowers out of the window. Then he pointed 
to a chair set ready for her within a few feet of him. 

“Sit down!” he commanded. “I declare—” in a growl 
wholly strange to her ears — “I wonder, sometimes, if you 
have any heart at all, or any brains ! I sent for you, not 
your mother ! She has heard the story I have to tell you. 
I shall not tell your brother and sister unless you force 
me to do so. Are you listening? This is business, 
I would have you know! We have had too much of silly 
affectations. No! Not a word! and — do you hear me? 
no crying ! And don’t interrupt me ! I shall make short 
work of the story. It isn’t so pleasant that I should care 
to spin it out.” 

As he paused, the terrified girl stole a glance at her 
mother. Her hands were folded upon the pile of stock- 
ings in her basket, her eyes were fixed upon her husband. 
Her visage was as unfamiliar as his, and as much of a 
mystery to the stunned beholder. The mouth was set 
and resolute; the eyes were soft with sadness and yearn- 
ing — but for the husband she had loved and served for 
forty years. In a sort of impersonal, hazy way the girl 
saw beyond her mother, the parsonage and white spire 
of the church. A queer speculation darted through her 
puny mind. She wondered if the Dominie would have 
to be sent for when her father had done with her, as 
had happened that other hateful time ? 

Her father had begun the story. He wasted not a 
word. He essayed no artistic eflPects. He told how a 
man, dressed like a woman and talking like a negro, had 


A LONG LANE 


83 

managed to get a seat in his buggy; what had excited 
his suspicions of foul play, and how he had escaped 
death. 

The girl forgot to wonder what she had to do with 
the almost-tragedy while she listened. Her natural man- 
ner and tone went with the cry — 

“Oh, Daddykin, dear ! how dreadful! Do you really 
think he would have hurt you? Are you sure it was 
not a woman, just playing a trick? And you say you 
found a pistol in the muff?” 

“I said all that ! I am going to put a question to 
you, now !” Plis face was yet more grim. 

“Look at me, Caroline Corlaer! Who has travelled 
with negro minstrels, and is most likely to imitate the 
negro dialect to perfection? Who is the cleverest actor 
you know? Who comes of a family that neither fears 
God nor regards man’s rights? Who — and this is the 
most important question of all — who, in this community, 
has most reason to hate me for crossing his path when 
he would have stolen one of the dearest things to me 
upon earth? most reason for wishing to kill me for flog- 
ging him within an inch of his life? 

“No! no!” pushing her back when she cried out in 
horror, and would have fallen into his arms. “We have 
had enough of scenes !” 

The girl interrupted him. She was crying bitterly. 
“Father ! I can’t believe that anybody who 1 — ^who cares 
for me — ^would do such a thing! It must have been a 
tramp — maybe from the city — who heard you had money 

and — and The rest of the defence was wrecked 

by sobs. 

*^Stop that noise He had stooped to pull some- 
thing from beneath his chair, and curiosity stanched her 
weeping for a moment. What she would have described 


A LONG LANE 


84 

as a “mangy old muff*” was in his hand, and he drew from 
it a dirty bit of tape made fast to the inside. 

“Wipe your eyes, and read that!” 

She obeyed. The tape was ragged at the end he held, 
but she could make out the few letters in faded ink, and 
penned by an unpracticed hand: 

“5. A, Smerd ” 

The rest was torn off. 

“His mother probably had that muff when she was a 
young woman, before Jake drank up the small fortune 
she had brought him” — ^went on the pitiless prosecutor. 
“Now, my young lady, you may be able to see that, but 
for you and your underhanded tricks upon parents who 
trusted you to behave like a virtuous and right-minded 
woman — but for you, I say — ^your father would not have 
been waylaid on the highroad, and run the risk of being 
shot down like a mad dog.” 

Carrie was on her knees at his feet, moaning and 
writhing in keenest anguish. He did not move to touch 
her. Nor did the mother by the distant window, looking 
with dry, desolate eyes upon the scene that was half- 
revealed by snow-wreaths on the November day when her 
son had cursed, in her hearing, the father whose best- 
belovM child now lay under the lash of his merciless 
tongue. She had pitied her boy, while she reproved him 
for his wild talk. She felt that her daughter merited 
all she received. 

She heard her husband rise from his chair and open 
her desk which stood near the window on his side of the 
room. The rustle of paper followed, and his harsh order 
to the cringing creature on the floor : 

“Get up, and come here! Sit down and write what I 
dictate — ^just as I say it.” 

The dry-eyed mother did not turn her gaze from the 


A LONG LANE 


85 

scene under her lookout. Men were bustling back and 
forth about the Brouwer grounds and house. In the 
depth of her misery, she recalled that Timothy O. had 
spoken of it as ‘‘a Mansion” last night, and how big he 
made it look in his speech. The “man who had no ene- • 
mies !” Her husband — ^high as the heavens are above 
the earth in his superiority to the low-born pretender — 
had been hunted like a wild beast ! 

Dear God! If his senses had been one whit less acute, 
he might now be lying stark and bloody in the road, and his 
murderer free and unsuspected! Her subconscious mind 
did not lose one word of the letter trembling fingers were 
tracing upon the sheet laid before the wretched little fool. 

^^Bogardus Smerden!*' The relentless voice dictated 
slowly, dropping each syllable like a pellet of ice. 
father, Mr, Wilhelmus Corlaer, wishes to inform you that 
he has two articles belonging to you which were left 
in his carriage last night. If he had no other evidence 
of your identity and designs than these afford, he could 
yrove them by passing the pistol known to be yours, and 
the muff bearing your mother^ s name, over to the proper 
authorities. 

*‘This he is prepared to do if you do not leave town- 
ship and State within twenty-four hours after the receipt 
of this letter, never to enter them again. Should you 
ever show your face in Kinapeg, my father will shoot 
you down as you would have shot him down last night, 
had he not got rid of you by a trick. If he should not 
be alive at the time of your return, my brother will shoot 
you, as a duty he owes to his family. 

"'As for myself, I wish never to see your face again, 
or to hear your name. I despise myself when I recollect 
that I have ever associated with a man of your stamp. 

"Caroline Corlaer J* 


86 


A LONG LANE 


“Take care!” admonished the dictator from time to 
time. “Write plainly, and do not blot it, or you will have 
it all to do over again.” And once — “Take your time! 
I don’t want him to think you were too much agitated to 
write distinctly.” 

The victim staggered, in rising to her feet. The last 
turn of the screw had been too much. With a faint cry 
of “Mother! mother!” she went down in a moveless heap 
upon the carpet, striking her head against the corner 
of a footstool. The father picked her up in his arms, 
and the mother helped lay her on the bed. 

“Don’t take her into her room !” she whispered. “Mar- 
garita must not know of this. It must be our secret. 
God help us all!” 

She called in no help to revive the unconscious girl. 
Her husband lingered in the background, shielded from 
Carrie’s sight by the curtains of the bed, until he heard 
her voice reply to the mother’s inquiry — “Are you feel- 
ing better.?” 

“Don’t try to get up !” she pursued, soothingly. “Lie 
still for a while. I will be back directly.” 

Husband and wife left the room together. There was 
no one in the upper hall, and he took her in his arms 
in a long, close embrace. 

“The best and truest wife God ever gave to man!” he 
murmured in a choked voice. “This has been a hard or- 
deal for you, dear. I can never forget how loyally you 
have stood by me. And it is really wholesome discipline 
for her — poor foolish child! It is God’s way of dealing 
with His children to let them bear the consequences of 
their sins — for a while, at any rate. We must not spoil 
all by treating her as if she were a martyr.” 

He never opened his heart except to her, and this 
outburst was unusual. Lifting worshipful eyes to the 


A LONG LANE 


87 


face upon which the last twelve hours had ploughed new 
furrows, she kissed him in a strange passion of pity and 
love. 

‘‘My darling! when I think what might have been I 
wonder at your forbearance. I believe that she is cured 
— and forever!” And from the bottom of the mother- 
heart — “It is horrible to see how cruelly children can 
make parents suffer!” 

He pressed her head closer to his breast. She felt 
the great heavings that answered her: 

“You are right! It must be for our good, or it would 
not be the same, the world over. And when we would lay 
down our lives for them!” 

It was a rehef to them when the piano broke into 
merry music under Margarita’s fingers. She had no ink- 
ling of what had passed in that upper room. To avert 
inquiry, Mr. Corlaer slipped out of the side-door and 
visited the stables before strolling back to the house to 
bid his wife “Good morning.” 

Unsuspicious Margarita turned a sunny face at her 
mother’s entrance, half-an-hour thereafter. 

“Carrie has a headache and is lying down in my room,” 
Mrs. Corlaer said, quietly. “She does not bear late hours 
as well as you do.” 

The daughter interrupted her carelessly: 

“I don’t think it was late hours so much as walking 
in the garden, for ever and ever so long, without a hat. 
The sun is hotter at this season than she thinks.” 

“Perhaps you are right. I was thinking if it would 
not be a kindness to Mrs. de Baun for you to run over 
and ask if you can help her get pantries and cellars 
to rights. Such a big supply of eatables, crammed at 
random into one’s house, must need to be arranged!” 

And in rejoinder to the girl’s cheerful consent — “Don’t 


88 A LONG LANE 

forget to take your parasol, since you say the sun is so 
hot.” 

Loving diplomacy had set the domestic machinery into 
smooth running-order. She carried a cup of tea to 
the ailing girl, and telling her to “try to sleep,” settled 
herself by the westward window, darning-basket in hand 
and a nest of disquieting thoughts for company. An 
occasional glance from the window showed her the flot- 
sam and jetsam of last night’s Event. Once she had a 
glimpse of the Van Dyck carriage at the gate of the 
Parsonage. Mrs. Van Dyck was on the Entertainment 
Committee, and had to do with the left-overs and emptied 
pots, kettles and baskets to be restored to their owners 
to-day. Sarah got out of the carriage and tripped lightly 
into the Parsonage gate. Will had been all devotion 
to her last night. The dread lest her husband might 
divine the son’s infatuation was a gnawing tooth at her 
heart. The review of what she had that forenoon wit- 
nessed lent sharpness to the fang. He was consistently 
more strict with his son than with the petted youngling 
of the house. Yet he had not spared her! 

*^How cruelly children can make parents suffer!*’ 

Her own words returned to her with prophetic weight. 
And her husband’s reply — ^‘When we would lay down 
our lives for them!” 


CHAPTER IX 


I T was the middle of June and the strawberry season 
was at its height in Kinapeg. Up to the tops of the 
forest-crowned hills, one might happen upon sunny 
reaches of coarse grasses, sheltering ruddy patches of 
Alpine strawberries, exquisite in flavor and red as coral. 
The meanest garden boasted a plot of berries, while in 
the larger and better-cultivated, the broad squares yielded 
to them were the pride of owners who counted their 
acres by the hundred. 

Those who know something of the model parish and 
model pastor of my story, do not need to be informed 
that a strawberry-festival was a spiritual and social ne- 
cessity when the crop was in its richest prime. Thrifty 
husbandmen harvested their fruit into baskets, and drove 
all the ten miles to Millville to pack the crates into 
freight cars for the New York market. Stunted, gnarled 
and green berries were all that saw the family-table 
while the yield justified cartage and freight. To the 
credit of human nature and everyday religion be it re- 
corded, that the tithe of quarts due THE FESTIVAL 
was never abated, let the season be fair or foul. 

The meeting of the Ladies’ Aid preceding the Festival 
by a couple of days, was the largest of the year, and 
was ‘‘held with Mrs. Van Dyck.” 

That was the conventional announcement, sanctioned 
by the usage of ten generations of church-going folk. 
The proposition made the formula equivalent to a per- 
sonal and special invitation to every member. 

89 


90 


A LONG LANE 


The Van Dyck homestead opened its arms figuratively, 
and doors and windows literally, to welcome the obedient 
called-and-chosen. The front door, flanked by narrow 
side-lights and a fan-shaped window at top, stood hos- 
pitably wide, both leaves stretched back to the wall. The 
hall was roomy and airy, the rear door giving upon 
a well-shaven lawn backed by barn-yard and corn-field. 
Beyond this last, half-a-mile away, arose a line of hills 
swelling in benignant curves against the bluest of summer 
heavens. The windows of the back-parlour revealed the 
same view to the groups collected near them. 

“A really pretty picture, Mrs. Van Dyck !” said Rhoda 
Brouwer, in her most agreeably-patronizing manner, one 
that heightened her already marked resemblance to her 
father. ‘T should think you would grow very fond of it.” 

The hostess smiled, well-pleased. 

‘‘Yes ! There ain’t a window but looks out upon some- 
thin’ real nice. I’ll never forget, Mrs. de Baun, some- 
thin’ the Dominie said the first Sunday he preached for 
us as our Pastor. He stayed with us, you see. It was 
June and a-most-a-beautiful day. I come up behind him 
unbeknownst, and he was a-gazin’ out of the window, like 
somebody in a dream. Before he knew I was there, I 
heard him say to himself, sweet and solemn-like, ‘The 
lines have fallen to me in pleasant places. Yea, I have 
a goodly heritage !’ ” 

“How beautiful and appropriate !” gushed Timothy 
Brouwer’s daughter, in her best style. “Mr. de Baun has 
a genius for saying exactly the right thing at the right 
time.” 

“And doing the right thing at all times!” responded 
Miss Amelia, one of the sweet-faced “Old Ladies 
Brouwer.” 

Mrs. de Baun’s blush was as quick as a girl’s. 


A LONG LANE 


91 


“Thank you all for saying such pleasant things of 
my husband,” she said in the soft voice which was one 
of her charms. “/ know, of course, how good he is, but 
it is gratifying to learn that he is appreciated by his 
friends.” 

“You ain’t jealous then.^^” struck in an old lady from 
a distant corner, with a cracked laugh. 

“On the contrary, the more you dear people love him 
the better I love you,” returned the minister’s wife. “I 
grant you leave to carry on the good work to your heart’s 
content.” 

Then and there. Miss Rhoda felt herself called upon 
to contribute an immortal utterance to the store of Con- 
fidential Parsonage Stories, without which Dominie and 
consort would have felt many a pin-prick that now went 
for nothing. 

“I suppose, Mrs. de Baun, that you say, with Shake- 
speare’s Touchstone — ‘A poor thing, hut mine ownF ” 

The delicate bloom of the wife’s cheek was carna- 
tion under the strain of repressed laughter. Her voice 
shook : 

“No, indeed, Rhoda! I have never dreamed of apply- 
ing the quotation in that connection.” Carefully refrain- 
ing from glancing in the direction of the Corlaer sisters, 
who, she felt, were in full enjoyment of the joke, she 
added, hastily : “I thought we were to see some wonder- 
ful work of yours, to-day 

Her husband was wont to declare that her tact was 
invariable and timely. If she had ever agreed with him 
she was inclined to change her mind within the next half- 
hour. Rhoda thought nothing could be more apt than 
the appeal to her beaming self. Up to that instant no- 
body seemed to notice that she had brought into the 
room with her, and deposited upon a table between the 


92 


A LONG LANE 


back-windows, an oblong flat parcel about a foot long 
and, perhaps, nine inches wide, done up in tissue paper. 
The ‘‘execution” of the masterpiece had engaged every 
hour she could spare from what she spoke of as “social 
duties” — meaning visits to New York — for the past three 
months. 

She arose, now, with amiable alacrity and brought for- 
ward the parcel. Untying a white ribbon, she began 
to remove the treble foldings. 

“I flatter myself that it is rather unique!” she ad- 
mitted. “I learned the Art last winter in the city. It 
is all the rage there.” 

Every eye was upon her; every neck was stretched 
expectantly. 

“Excuse me, if I ask you all to move to that side of 
the room!” was the next preliminary. “I must stand 
where I can get the best light.” 

The movement accomplished, she held up a frame, con- 
taining, behind glass, something so nearly “unique” that 
no one ventured a question or other comment than a 
long-drawn, simultaneous “Oh-h-h-h !” of compressed emo- 
tion of divers kinds. 

Mrs. Van Dyck was the first to speak: 

“Very pretty, I am sure,” she said, agreeably. “What 
is it intended to rep resent 

She would have asked the same question had the frame 
held portrait, or flower-piece. 

“It is a landscape some of you must recognise,” an- 
nounced the artist, tolerant of ignorance and rusticity. 
“I sketched it from my window. You see the creek and 
bridge in the foreground, the willows on the bank of 
the creek, and in the background the Corlaer house, 
with the distant mountains. It is called ‘Hair Mosaic,’ 
no materials being used but human hair!” 


A LONG LANE 


93 

A burst of amazed admiration partially repaid her 
for the forbearance she had mustered. 

“Yes! Mrs. Van Dyck! every bit of it is human hair! 
At an exhibition of the work done by our class last win- 
ter, there were several ‘Family Souvenirs,’ made from 
the hair of different members of the same family. They 
are very valuable, as you may imagine. 

“You wouldn’t believe how I had to manoeuvre to get 
just the right shades of hair for some parts of this pic- 
ture. I put the high lights in by robbing poor dear 
father of so much white hair that he took flight when- 
ever he saw me with a pair of scissors in my hand.” 

Half a dozen women were on their knees in front of 
the show-woman, to gain a better view of the “Unique.” 
To Mrs. de Baun was allotted a low chair close to the 
speaker. It was she who made herself heard above the 
babble of exclamations. 

“How did you fasten the mosaics to the paper 

“It is not paper, but silk canvas of the finest quality, 
tinted slightly as a background of sky. First, we out- 
lined the pattern. Then we threaded fine cambric needles 
with the hair and worked it in. ‘Difficult,’ did you say, 
Mrs. Wortman.f^ Indeed it was! Artistic skill and deli- 
cate manipulation were required.” 

The landscape was an extraordinary performance. Not 
one of the spectators had a glimmer of suspicion that it 
forecast the Cubist Futurist School that was to confound 
conservative critics, sixty years thereafter. It could but 
gratify the artist and soften her judgment of her unso- 
phisticated neighbours that, one by one, they made out the 
features of her picture. 

“My! but them willow branches must have been awful 
hard to put in!” ejaculated the old lady whose laugh 
cracked in the middle. 


94 A LONG LANE 

Rhoda beamed and scintillated patronage and pleas- 
ure : 

“Why, Mrs. de Mott I You have used just the right 
word. It was hard to ‘put in’ those drooping stream- 
ers ! It took a great deal longer to do the foliage of 
the willows than to build the whole Corlaer house.” 

“And if there ain’t a cow a-drinkin’ out of the brook 
as natural as can be !” cried the flattered woman, indi- 
cating her discovery with a warped and battered fore- 
finger. 

Rhoda bridled and chilled. 

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. de Mott! that is a rock! 
You must have noticed it many a time in going over the 
bridge.” 

The pastor’s wife instinctively threw herself into the 
breach : 

“I suppose we may thank Mr. Brouwer for that glimpse 
of sunlight upon the roof of Mr. Corlaer’s house.?* By 
the way, Carrie” — turning to the girl who was in the 
forefront of the gazers — “that falls right across your 
window.” 

“So it does !” cooed Carrie. Bringing her pretty face 
nearer to the Unique, she had a discovery of her very 
own to report. “You painted the sky to make a sun- 
rise ! That was a nice notion, Rhoda. But where 
in all the Valley did you find that bit of red hair 
to represent the sun? I don’t believe it is natural! 
You painted it scarlet ! No hair was ever as blazing red 
as that!” 

Everybody laughed, the appeased Rhoda included. 

“You saucy monkey! It was the funniest thing imag- 
inable — my happening upon that red hair! We were 
driving over the mountains — Father and Ruth and I — and 
there ran out of a mean little house by the side of the 


A LONG LANE 


95 


road, the reddest-headed boy ever created. I screamed 
to Father to stop, and told him point-blank that I 
must have a lock of that child’s hair to make a sun of. 
So he called the child’s mother to the door, and told her 
I had taken a fancy to her boy’s red hair and he would 
give her a dollar for a lock of it. I don’t believe the 
poor wretch had ever seen so much money at a time in 
all her hfe. She cut off enough to make fifty suns and 
father gave her a paper to wrap it in. I didn’t want 
to handle it! You never saw such a dirty hole as he 
lived in. There were but three rooms in the house and 
there must have been ten children! We could see through 
the door how filthy and horrid everything was. Father 
says there is a regular colony of them up there, and 
they are all alike. ‘Smerden’ is the name.” 

Margarita grew cold all over, and her tongue froze to 
the roof of her mouth, while her sister laughed hyster- 
ically and talked fast: 

“The oddest thing I ever heard in all my hfe!” she 
giggled, seizing the frame and turning the picture di- 
rectly to the light. “It takes you to have adventures, 
Rhodie! I declare this is the most curious thing I ever 
beheld. It gets more and more interesting the longer 
you look at it. I suppose you will ask a high price for 
it.?” 

The big, buxom girl looked down at the lesser, and 
laid her finger upon her lips, mysteriously. 

“That is to be decided by the Ladies’ Aid.” It was 
said in a half-whisper. “My wish would be to make a 
pot of money for the Church by raffling it off. But in 
this benighted part of the universe, good people have 
scruples about raffles. So I thought we’d whip the devil 
’round the stump by selling the mosaic on shares, and 
when all the shares are taken, make a present of it to — 


96 A LONG LANE 

you promise never to breathe it to her until the deed is 
done ?” 

She stood at her full height, raising her voice as she 
elevated the picture with both hands in the sight of all. 

^^Oyezl oyez! Are you all listening? My proposition 
is to sell this valuable work of art for fifty dollars in 
shares of fifty cents each, and present it to our worthy 
and able President — Mrs. Wilhelmus Corlaer. I am glad 
she could not meet with us to-day. I never was glad 
of her absence before. It seems to me that she is the 
one of all others who ought to have this picture. Her 
homestead is the principal object in it” — designating it 
with her disengaged hand. “If my project meets with 
general approval, may I ask our good Vice President, Mrs. 
Van Dyck, to put the question?” 

“Somebody’s got to make the motion first,” suggested 
that practical functionary. She had not attended La- 
dies’ Aids forty years without knowing that a motion 
must be put before it can be voted upon. 

Mrs. SythofF, the relict of a deceased lawyer, made 
the motion in due form: 

“I move that the work of art submitted to us this after- 
noon by Miss Rhoda Brouwer, be sold by shares at the 
Festival to be held June eighteenth, and afterwards pre- 
sented by the Ladies’ Aid Association to our esteemed 
President, Mrs. Corlaer.” 

It was felt that the widow had never done a neater 
thing. The motion was carried unanimously. 

“Now, you two girls are bound by your word and oath 
not to let a syllable of .all this slip out at home !” was 
the admonition of the artist and the author of the happy 
conceit. “It must be a total surprise to your mother.” 
As the buzz of tongues arose, she stooped to say in Mrs. 
de Baun’s ear : “And I shall lose my guess if the Patroon 


A LONG LANE 


97 


does not fork out a cool additional fifty in acknowledg- 
ment of the compliment paid to the Patrimonial Man- 
sion !” 

It was entirely safe to let escape to the discreet pas- 
toress the chagrin never absent from her mind when the 
old homestead was alluded to as honourable by reason 
of age and occupation. Yet there was in the corner of 
her soul satisfaction in the thought that her ‘‘sketch” 
of the Corlaer homestead would hang upon the ancient 
walls. Timothy O. harboured not a suspicion that his 
neighbour of the long pedigree was one whit his superior. 
His daughter had taken in, by painful degrees, the truth 
as to the relative positions of the two families, and natu- 
rally girded inwardly in admitting it. 

Margarita Corlaer, as secretary, now made out a list 
of fancy articles reported by various members. Book- 
marks, wrought upon perforated card-board and mounted 
upon ribbons, held a conspicuous place. One displayed 
wdth modest pride by Mrs. Van Dyck, was eight inches 
long and four in breadth. The purple satin ribbon back- 
ing it projected six inches below and above. The design 
was a goblet embroidered in silver thread, the shadows 
that rounded the chalice artistically done in shaded 
greys. Above this hung a glittering cross, shedding 
threads of bght into the depths of the cup. The inscrip- 
tion wrought in gold beads was — 

“SORROW, TOUCHED BY THEE, GROWS 
BRIGHT.” 

A sudden hush fell upon the company of chatterers 
as Mrs. de Baun’s sweet, reverent tones rendered the 
quotation. Mrs. Van Dyck broke it at the end of a long 
minute : 

“If it is my Sarah’s work, I must say it as maybe 
shouldn’t say it — that I never see a handsomer mark. 


A LONG LANE 


98 

She begun it in February and has worked upon it pretty 
nigh every evenin’ since. You see, Mr. Lang, he reads 
aloud to us quite some, and Sarah, she’d take that time 
for fancy-work. She got the motto from a hymn-book. 
My husband, he sets so much store by the bookmark, he 
declares he’s goin’ to buy it at the Festival. He is 
bound he wiU get it and keep it in the old Dutch Bible 
that he can remember his father readin’ out of at family 
prayers. So Sarah laughs and tells him if he wants it 
so terrible bad, he’s got to pay for it. I guess all men 
are pretty much alike when it comes to their daughters. 
My husband sets more store by that one slip of a girl 
than he does by all his boys.” 

‘‘It’s a pity Sarah’s mother cares so little for her!” 
remarked Mrs. Sythoff. 

Whereat everybody laughed. The place held by the 
only daughter in the Van Dyck home was patent to 
church and neighbourhood. 

She slipped from the parlour when her mother returned 
the book-mark, carrying it with her. The supper which 
would be served at six o’clock was already laid in the 
dining-room, and Sauchy was moving about the table to 
supply a few final touches. She had done all the fine 
cooking for the feast. Before giving the signal to her 
sister-in-law that the guests might come in, she would 
bring mounds of hot biscuits to fill the gaps left by pickles, 
preserves, cheese and six varieties of cakes and cookies, 
forming a connecting chain from a huge decorated ham 
at the lower end of the board to a mountain of cold 
carved chicken at the upper. At a later stage of the 
proceedings she would produce bulwarks and palisades 
of hot buttered waffles. She would hand them in at the 
door leading to the kitchen-area, Sarah and a couple 
of her girl-comrades receiving them there, and passing 


A LONG LANE 


99 

them around the table. The hostess would pour tea and 
coffee at a side-table. 

Sauchy would see to it that not a detail of the feast 
was wanting. 

She shook her head frowningly at her niece, and mo- 
tioned toward the door by which she had entered. The 
girl made a mutinous mouth, and laughed, in obeying the 
gesture. This was not a time for stirring her aunt up. 
Cortlandt Van Dyck, the acknowledged humorist of the 
tribe, was wont to say of her that “she was that sot in 
her ways, no meetin’ house was ever sotter.” Now and 
then a gossip marvelled aloud that Mrs. Van Dyck bore 
so long and patiently with the nuisance of “the half-crazy 
old thing.” Those better versed in the economies and 
pohcies of the household said that the sister-in-law paid 
her way twice over. Furthermore, it was well-known that 
by the terms of their father’s will provision was made 
for the maintenance of the semi-imbecile. She was also 
to remain a resident of the homestead as long as she 
lived. 


CHAPTER X 


S ARAH was sensibly relieved that she was not wanted 
in kitchen or dining-room. Nobody would miss her 
for the' next half-hour. It was all her own. 

She stole into the sitting-room and shut the door lead- 
ing into the great hall. The babble of feminine voices 
flowing from the crowded rooms beyond was like the caw- 
ing of crows, mingled with the staccato shrieks of guinea- 
fowls. 

She sank into an easy chair by the window, overlook- 
ing the side-lawn, the mill and the bridge. The ripple of 
the water, the thud of the mill-wheel and the sough of 
the breeze in the big cherry-tree embowering the win- 
dow, soothed the strained nerves. 

The farmer’s daughter was as ignorant of the duty of 
“relaxation” as M. Jourdain of the amazing fact that he 
had been talking prose all his life without knowing it. 
Yet she relaxed scientifically in the unlooked-for breath- 
ing-spell. She made a comely picture, lying back in the 
old chair that lent itself graciously to every curve of her 
pliant form, and offered rest to the head. She did not 
need to turn it to take in each feature of the scene 
framed by the stooping branches of the cherry-tree. The 
mill stood at the foot of the hill and the upper story 
was on a level with her lookout. Front and back doors 
were open and showed the blue sky beyond. Cort leaned 
in the doorway opening to the floor. The stalwart frame, 
clad in irreproachable “jersey,” and trousers crisp from 

100 


A LONG LANE 


101 


the laundry, stood out well against the dusky interior. 
Here and there a pencil of sunlight was tremulous with 
gold-dust, — the floating particles of meal rising from the 
lower room. A man dressed in white sat just where a 
beam of shimmering gold fell upon his face. A little 
way behind him was a third figure, not so clearly defined, 
his suit of dark-blue blending with shadows lurking in 
the corners. 

Sarah laughed softly in surveying the group. The 
elderly members of the Aid were to be allowed to depart 
decorously when the supper was over. Then, the girls, 
the Van Dyck brothers, Mr. Lang and Will Corlaer, 
with host and hostess, the Dominie and his wife, were to 
sit down at a second edition of the feast. Two girls had 
volunteered to assist the daughter of the house — Matilda 
Voorhees, a far-distant relative and close neighbour of 
the Van Dycks, and Tessie Bartholf, who taught the 
Infant Class in the Sunday School. Both loved young 
company, and neither was clever or pretty. 

‘‘But so good!” Sarah had pleaded to her brothers 
and Norman Lang. “I should be perfectly happy if I 
were as good as Tessie Bartholf. I shall not let her 
know that I asked the Corlaer girls. You see Matilda 
and Tessie offeredT^ 

“May I inquire if you ever overlooked an opportunity 
to make other people happy.?” inquired Mr. Lang. 

“Never that I know of!” Cort had responded, and the 
smile of both parents made cordial assent. 

Sarah was thinking it all over as she relaxed limbs 
and nerves. The memory ran through her like a cool, 
sweet current, bathing her being in peaceful content. 
Was there another girl in the world who had so much 
to make her happy.? The second party of feasters would 
have strawberry ice-cream for supper. Even Mother, the 


102 


A LONG LANE 


very soul of liberal hospitality — had agreed reluctantly 
that to undertake to make it for the whole company 
“was not to be thought of. The young folks were a 
different thing altogether.” 

A little laugh bubbled musically from Sarah’s lips at 
the thought. 

“Here you are! having a good time all by yourself!” 

The door had opened so noiselessly that she had not 
known she was not alone until Margarita Corlaer spoke. 

“Don’t move!” she begged, pushing Sarah back into 
the chair and pulling up one for herself beside her. “I 
don’t blame you for getting away from the crowd. How 
cool and happy you look! I often wonder if you are 
really and truly so much calmer and more content than 
the rest of us. I think of the ‘peace that passes all 
understanding’ when I look at you in church. And you 
looked the same just now before you knew I was here. 
Would you mind telling me what you were thinking about 
I won’t tell!” 

The sisters were as dissimilar in person as in char- 
acter. Margarita was petite and a decided brunette, 
with flashing black eyes, delicate features and fine teeth 
revealed in the smile that lighted up her visage into 
beauty. Sarah was becoming fond of her. Until within 
the past half-year, she had never known what a charming 
girl Will’s sister could be. 

“It is no secret!” she answered readily and sweetly. 
“I was thinking of my mother and how she likes to make 
everybody happy — especially young people.” 

“That is true!” rejoined the other. “You and I have 
much to be thankful in having such mothers. God never 
made two better women. 

“How quiet and lovely it is in here! May I stay a 
few minutes? I don’t want to be worn out before we 


A LONG LANE 


103 

have our little supper! Who are to be there besides 
us girls?” 

Sarah drew the muslin curtain aside. 

“There are three of them! The others are at work on 
the farm somewhere. They will be in, in time.” 

Margarita leaned forward, well-pleased. 

“The lazy fellows! But what a nice tableau they 
make! Mr. Lang looks so well in white I don’t wonder 
he wears it so much. You’ve heard, of course, that we 
are not to lose him so soon as we thought? It was set- 
tled only yesterday, so he hasn’t had time to tell his 
friends. Father has long felt the need of a chemist in his 
business. He has some project about making steel that 
he can’t carry on without somebody who knows a good 
deal about chemistry. I don’t understand it at all. Only 
Father told us at dinner to-day that he has engaged 
Mr. Lang to help him in his laboratory for the rest of 
the summer. It seems Mr. Lang is a fine chemist. 

‘T don’t know what we should do without him in the 
choir — and everywhere, for that matter. He is such an 
acquisition to the neighbourhood !” 

“He told us to-day that he had made an engagement 
with Mr. Corlaer that would keep him here awhile longer,” 
said Sarah, in her quietest tone. “We should miss him, 
as you say. Take care !” drawing her friend away from 
the centre of the window. “Your brother is looking this 
way ! He might see you !” 

“What harm if he does!” Margarita retorted, resum- 
ing her former position. 

Sarah blushed so rosily that the sister looked askance 
at her. “I only meant I didn’t want them to think we 
are watching them. Have you noticed how thick the 
cherries are on that tree? Mother is looking forward 
already to preserving and pickling them.” 


104 


A LONG LANE 


Margarita made some indifferent reply and continued 
to gaze out of the window, abstractedly or wearily. 
Sarah relapsed into reverie. 

Provident robins were building in the cherry-tree. 
Mingling with the song of bird and stream and the rhyth- 
mic pulsing of the mill-wheel, Sarah caught an occasional 
laugh, or murmur of conversation from the trio of loung- 
ers in the upper room over there. She said to herself that 
she had never been so entirely, unquestioningly happy 
before in her twenty years of life as on that heavenly 
afternoon. In the green glooms shed by the thick fo- 
liage into the room, she was invisible from without. She 
did not shrink when Will arose from the bench on which 
he was sitting, and strolled to a place beside her brother, 
seeming to peer into the depths of the branches above 
her retreat. He could not see her ! She had sat 
too often just there with the interior of the old 
mill in view, not to know how obscure was her coign of 
vantage. 

Had the waking dream been less enthralling she might 
have speculated why Margarita had sought her out just 
then and there. It was pleasant that Will’s sister should 
make advances toward familiar intercourse. . He had 
never betrayed a gleam of consciousness that the social 
plane of the two families was not quite the same. All 
the same, she was flattered by the circumstance that 
Margarita Corlear had broken away openly from the rest 
of the guests and come to her. O, it was passing good 
to be alive this glorious June day, and to be just where 
she was, with the smell of the lilacs, the love-twitter of 
the robins and the song of the water, the sight of the 
tableau of the three across the road, with the shower of 
gold dust shimmering over them, making the hour per- 
fect ! 


A LONG LANE 


105 

Margarita broke the spell with a very commonplace 
query : 

‘‘What do you know of Mr. Lang’s family? Are his 
parents alive?” 

“His mother died five or six years ago,” Sarah came 
out of her dream to say. “His father died when he was 
a baby. He does not recollect him.” 

“Sisters and brothers?” pursued the visitor, judicially 
direct. 

“He has two sisters — both married, one living in Phila- 
delphia, the other in Chicago. His brother lives in Bos- 
ton.” 

“You may think it strange that I should ask these 
questions.” Margarita laid her hand caressingly upon 
her companion’s. “But Father having taken him into 
his office may throw us together socially, and it is natural 
we should wish to know more about him. Of course, 
everybody who has moved in good society can see that 
he is a gentleman, if he does teach school for a living.” 

She rose abruptly: 

“I suppose we ought to be going back to the par- 
lours. But I would rather stay here! I wish we could 
see more of one another. Shan’t we keep up the singing- 
class this summer now that our leader* is not going away? 
Suppose we talk it over after supper to-night?” 

She set the seal upon the intimacy by saying, her hand 
upon the door beyond which the crow-and-guinea fowl 
concert was still in full blast, — 

“I hope Rhoda Brouwer has finished taking up her 
collection by now! I overheard Mrs. de Baun ask her if 
it wouldn’t be better to put off selling the shares for a 
little while. Rhoda wouldn’t listen to her. ‘No time like 
the present!’ said she. ‘Make hay while the sun shines! 
is my motto.’ Then I got away. What Mother will do 


io6 


A LONG LANE 


with the hideous thing I can’t imagine! The cap of the 
climax was that dirty brat’s hair. The sight of the red 
dab will always make me sick I” 

“I’m sorry !” was all Sarah had time to say. 

Carrie met them just without the door of the front 
parlour and dragged her sister into the front porch for 
a whispered communication: 

“Why did you run away? I thought I should never 
live through it! She let nobody escape. Mrs. de Baun 
kept her from attacking me, but she screwed fifty cents 
out of everybody else. She thought the red hair especi- 
ally funny. One woman asked ‘if the fumigating of the 
“sun’’ was thoroughly done?’ Then everybody who 
heard it, laughed. Rita ! I died twiceH 

“Hold up your head and seem not to care!” was the 
sister’s counsel. She had scant patience with Carrie’s 
love-affairs and found it hard to forgive her latest folly. 
Loyalty to the blood obliged her to stand by her. 

“The whole affair is disgusting!” she went on to say. 
“The thing to do now is to behave as if nothing were 
wrong. Try to forget it all until we have played our 
parts here.” 

Had the younger sister lived in our generation she 
would have registered herself as “a dead-game sport.” 
She pulled herself together, putting up her hands to pat 
down her ruffled hair, and readjusting her neck-gear. 

“That’s all right! Now for the rest of the perform- 
ances 1” 

The hands of the taU, century-old hall-clock pointed 
to half-past eight when Mrs. Van Dyck paused in the 
outer door, serene and self-complacent, to admire the 
scene without. Her heart was “at leisure from itself,” to 
enjoy it. Supper No. 1 had never been excelled by any 
similar occasion within the bounds of the parish. Appe- 


A LONG LANE 


107 


tites matched the food, and nothing better could be said 
for either. Supper No. 2 was no less satisfactory to all 
concerned. Within half-an-hour after the party left the 
table, every dish, plate, cup and saucer was washed and 
put away in cupboard and pantry ; the hostess had taken 
off the bih-apron which had shielded her second-best 
black silk, and washed her hands of further domestic 
duties for that day. 

The moon was at the full. The Ladies’ Aid contrived, 
whenever it could be made convenient, to appoint meet- 
ings when there was a moon. There were members liv- 
ing upon the outskirts of the parish who were glad to 
have the evening illumination upon lonely roads. 

The complacent dame stood for a full minute in the 
shadow of the projecting doorway before she was per- 
ceived by the loungers. Chairs were clustered upon the 
short turf ; stools dotted the intervals between chairs, 
and Carrie Corlaer sat upon a rug she had commanded 
Cort Van Dyck to bring from the house. He had put 
it, as she directed, in the fullest beams of the moon, and 
(perhaps also in obedience to her behest) thrown him- 
self down beside her, a little apart from the central group. 
Mr. Van Dyck and the Dontinie smoked the pipes of in- 
finite contentment near Mrs. de Baun and Tessie Bart- 
holf. Sarah and Margarita made up a quintette with 
Norman Lang, Will Corlaer and Case Van Dyck. Jack 
sat upon the grass, cross-legged, carrying on a cousinly 
confabulation with Matilda Voorhees. 

It was, as the housemother said inwardly to her swell- 
ing heart — ‘‘a sight any woman might be proud of when 
so many of them were her own flesh and blood.” 

What she said aloud was — “My ! but I wish you could 
all stand here and see how fine you look! It is just like 
a scene in the theatre I” 


io8 


A LONG LANE 


The men were on their feet simultaneously, but it was 
Norman Lang who got to her first with the rocking- 
chair. 

“It has been waiting for you all this time!” he de- 
clared. “I was getting uneasy lest you might not be 
coming out to join us.” 

It was a way he had — and it may have meant next-to- 
nothing — but elderly folk of both sexes loved him for 
never seeming to consider them out of the running in 
any line of life. Without saying it in so many words, he 
had made the latest comer feel that his enjoyment of 
scene and companionship would be enhanced by her com- 
ing. Inferential flattery, delicately conveyed, is the most 
subtle and delicious tribute to personal worth and charms 
one can offer. Mrs. Van Dyck was wont to say of her 
boarder that he was *^that kind-hearted!” Her vocabu- 
lary would not carry her meaning further. 

“It is a thousand times better than any theatrical 
scene ever set,” continued the young man, letting his 
hand lie for a moment upon the back of her chair — ^“be- 
cause the beauty and enjoyment of it are real. The 
manager who could put this night and this view upon 
the stage would make his fortune.” 

Then he went back to the party he had left. The 
relative positions of the four had changed with the ris- 
ing of the men at the appearance of Mrs. Van Dyck. 
Her eldest son had slipped away, and presently 
was seen going down the hill to the mill. He told 
his mother next day, that he “hoped he knew when he 
was an odd number, and didn’t care to flirt with his own 
sister.” 

Will Corlaer would seem to have been like-minded, for 
under pretext of showing Sarah the North Star and the 
Dipper, that hung like so many drops of living light just 


A LONG LANE 


109 

around the end of the house — ^he escorted her to the 
farther side of the lawn. 

“It is not often one sees the stars so brilliant when 
the moon is at the full,” he remarked, incidentally, in 
passing the parental pair as he strolled back. “And the 
Dipper hangs high to-night.” 

Instead of seeking her former place where Lang and 
Margarita still sat in the shade of the lilac bower, Sarah 
sank down upon the lower step of the porch, near enough 
to her mother to lay her hand upon her lap. By and by, 
her head rested against the arm of the rocking-chair, 
and she smiled up into her mother’s face. 

“I wish we could have some music to-night!” the lat- 
ter said, hastily, in a voice that was not quite clear, 
“It is all we lack. When I was young we couldn’t be 
happy on a moonlight evenin’ unless there was singin’. 
Mr. Lang! Would it be too much to ask you to let us 
have the song you sung the last night we sat out here.f^ 
‘Mary of Somethin’,’ it was. I don’t just remember the 
name. But it was the sweetest thing I ever heard.” 

Norman’s light laugh was pure amusement — not ridi- 
cule. Like the “kind-hearted” gentleman he was, he 
came forward with Margarita, who had seconded the 
request, and standing by the steps, sent his divine voice 
into the night : 

“I have heard the mavis singing 
His love-song to the morn; 

I have seen the dew-drop clinging 
To the rose that’s newly-born. 

But a sweeter voice has charmed me 
At the daylight’s golden close. 

And I’ve seen an eye that’s brighter 
Than the dew-drop on the rose. 


no 


A LONG LANE 


‘‘ ’Twas thy voice, my gentle Mary, 

And thine artless, winning smile, 

That made this world an Eden, 

My Mary of Argyle!” 

Eloquent stillness followed the echo of the last linger- 
ing note, returned from the nearest hill. Sarah’s head 
dropped lower upon her mother’s arm ; Margarita 
brushed her eyes lightly with her handkerchief, and soft- 
hearted Mr. Van Dyck blew his nose unaffectedly. 

Carrie, as was inevitable, broke the charm : 

‘‘The very loveliest ballad I ever listened to!” she 
cried ecstatically “Is that all.?” 

“All I know of it!” smiled Lang. “I learned it by 
ear, ages ago. My sister used to sing it.” 

Will Corlaer put an unexpected question: 

“What is a mavis.?” 

Nobody had an answer until Norman Lang said — again 
with his pleasant laugh — “I have always supposed it 
was a lark. What other bird sings a love-song to the 
morn.?” 

Sarah spoke timidly — “Don’t you recollect, Mr. Lang, 
that Mr. Peggotty says in ‘David Copperfield’ — ‘Like 
two young mavishes,’ and David explains that ‘it was 
Norfolk dialect for thrushes.?’ I heard a thrush sing- 
ing in the cherry-tree this very morning, and I thought 
of the ‘mavis’ and ‘Mary of Argyle.’ ” 

“The idea of your knowing something the school-master 
doesn’t!” The farmer’s pride in her broke bounds. 

“I should not have known anything about the bird 
if Mr. Lang hadn’t read ‘David Copperfield’ aloud to us 
last winter.” 

The farmer’s broad face outbeamed the moon : 

“She is a pretty clever girl in some things! I hear. 


A LONG LANE 


111 


Child, that your book-mark took the prize to-day. I 
s’pose you will say that you wouldn’t have chosen the 
motto out of the hymn-book if the teacher hadn’t showed 
it to you?” 

“I knew the hymn,” the girl answered readily, but 
with becoming diffidence. “I certainly should not have 
thought of using it in connection with the cross and 
the cup. I cannot recollect when I did not know what 
they stand for. I never thought of the meaning they 
have now that the motto is above them. How could I?” 

She sat erect; her eyes shone in the moonlight with 
unshed tears. She was looking past her father and the 
rest of them into the sky ; her voice was low, and thrilling. 

“How could I ?” she repeated slowly. “I have never had 
any sorrow!” 

For perhaps thirty seconds nobody spoke. Then the 
farmer stretched his hand toward her with a muffled 
exclamation — “That’s God’s truth, child! I wish your 
old father could only keep you from ever having any!” 

“Maybe it wouldn’t be good for me, dear father! But” 
— turning towards the others — '“we won’t talk about 
mournful things to-night when everything is so beautiful! 
Did mother tell you of the present the Ladies’ Aid is 
to make Mrs. Corlaer? The most curious thing you ever 
saw !” 

“Never had a sorrow!” In years to come, more than 
one of those strangely moved by the confession, would 
recall it and the weird beauty of the hour and scene. 

Margarita brought it up during the walk home. Her 
companion was not talkative, and she had opportunity 
to discourse at will: 

“It sent shivers all through me, Mr. Lang, when she 
said it! It sounded like tempting Providence. So few 
can tell the same story. In looking back, I see crosses 


112 


A LONG LANE 


planted all along my path, and I am not much older than 
Sarah Van Dyck. Happy, happy girl! But have you 
ever heard that when Sorrow does come to those who 
have not been bereaved for a long time, it seems to be 
the signal for a troop of trouble?” 

‘‘It would seem to be a natural law, — ” began Norman 
Lang, when Will’s voice struck across the speech. He 
was walking a few yards behind them, with Carrie, but 
his tones carried far in the dead stillness of the late 
evening. Tone and language were so unlike his, that 
the two in front stopped talking: 

“All I have to say is — *Wo unto him hy whom the of- 
fence comethr ” 


CHAPTER XI 


W ILHELMUS CORLAER was known to be too much 
a ‘‘man of affairs” to be uniformly cheerful, al- 
though too thoroughly the gentleman to be morose to 
friend and neighbour. But his associates in business and 
those who were in the way of meeting him casually, had 
not failed to remark upon the change in his face and 
manner during the past six months. He had lost flesh; 
his weary eyes and the deepened furrows in cheek and 
brow added ten years to his apparent age. 

The bovine imagination, rising to the occasion, 
launched into flights of invention that would have won 
a smile from the haggard man who was their inspiration. 
Streamlets of conjecture and drops of so-called infor- 
mation, linking Carrie’s name with that of the ne’er-do- 
weel who had once more mysteriously disappeared from 
the places that once knew him, played a considerable part 
in the theories broached upon the Store steps on warm 
evenings, and over the counter on rainy days. Financial 
embarrassments naturally loomed large upon the horizon 
for awhile, exorcised in time, by the sure and certain 
evidence of his increasing prosperity. A growing belief 
in a hypothesis introduced by our friend, Mr. Van Dyck, 
at length put the rest out of commission. The worthy 
farmer-miller recollected with distinctness that two of 
the Corlaers — one an uncle, the other a first cousin of 
the present Patroon (by courtesy) — had died of En- 
largement of the Spleen. The sallow complexion, loss of 

113 


114 


A LONG LANE 


appetite and melancholy mien of the case they were diag- 
nosing, “corresponding to a ‘t’ with the symptoms of 
the dread malady that had carried them off the stage of 
earthly existence.” 

The phrases were Mr. Van Dyck’s own, and fell with 
tremendous effect upon the various audiences for whom 
they were formulated. Norman Lang had not vexed his 
brain to offer refutation or assent before the June day 
when Mr. Corlaer reined up his horse as they met upon 
the turnpike near his own house, and put a direct ques- 
tion : 

“I am glad to have met you, Mr. Lang. Can you spare 
me an hour of your valuable time to-morrow forenoon? 
As it will be Saturday, you are likely to be at liberty, 
I suppose? I wish to consult you upon a matter of some 
importance to me.” 

The young man, albeit startled by the request, replied 
politely that he would be glad to call at any hour Mr. 
Corlaer might appoint. 

“At ten o’clock, then, if that will be convenient to 
you?” was the next sentence. “And at my office?” 

He went into no explanation, and beyond a brief — 
“Thank you! Then I shall expect you at ten o’clock!” 
when the other had expressed his assent to the terms of 
time and place, not another word was spoken. The met- 
tled horse bounded down the road at the prick of the 
spur, and Lang pursued his way homeward, lost in a fog 
of amaze and speculation. What possible use could the 
rich Ironmaster have for him — a student and a school- 
master? Their hnes of thought and enterprise, and their 
ambitions were so diverse, the one from the other, he 
could conceive of no common interest that could unite 
them. 

He was no nearer a solution of the puzzle when he pre- 


A LONG LANE 


115 

sented himself five minutes before ten at the door of 
Mr. Corlaer’s private office. 

He had walked fast and lingered upon the steps to re- 
cover breath. 

The office, a modest frame building one story high, was 
a stone’s throw from the bridge spanning the swift cur- 
rent escaping from the imprisoned lake thirty feet above. 
A huge rock in the centre of the stream had been utilised, 
nearly a century before, as a foundation for the dam. At 
the left, as the observer stood, towered the rude masonry 
of the power-house from which sluices of water turned 
the machinery of the foundry upon the lower level. The 
shout of the cataract and the continuous roar of the 
mills were in one and the same key. Fast upon the heels 
of the thought followed a flippant speech of Carrie Cor- 
laer’s, uttered teasingly for her father’s benefit: 

“Father is very proud of our picturesque waterfall, 
and there’s no denying that it is rather pretty when the 
pond is full and the Works are not pulling too hard upon 
it. But if there comes a drought, or if the mills are 
running day and night, it looks like nothing so much as 
a rock in a violent perspiration!” 

Norman Lang smiled at the recollection in turning to 
knock at the door. 

It was opened by Mr. Corlaer in person. The visitor 
was ushered through a narrow entry into a room of fair 
dimensions fitted up as an office and library. Two sides 
were lined with bookcases filled with leather-bound vol- 
umes of portentous size, and bearing the marks of much 
usage. Some had the unmistakable commercial stamp. 
Others, the quick eye of the book-lover recognized as 
standard classics in Latin and English. A large desk 
was in the middle of the floor, and two chairs were set 
at a conversational angle conveniently near it. By the 


ii6 


A LONG LANE 


time Lang had accepted one of these, facing his com- 
panion, the latter entered upon the business that had 
brought them together. 

“I understand from something my daughter Margarita 
has said, Mr. Lang, that you have had some experience 
in a Government Assay office 

“Comparatively little, sir. I worked in one for three 
months, a year ago. Chemistry has always been an at- 
tractive study to me, and Metallurgy. It was, there- 
fore, very agreeable to me when a friend who is a Govern- 
ment official, offered me a position as the substitute of a 
regular employe in the office of an assayer who was sent 
abroad on business. I enjoyed the work, and tried to 
make good use of my time.” 

“I am sure of it. Your casual mention of the circum- 
stances to my daughter seemed to me providential. I do 
not think I am superstitious. I do believe devoutly in 
an overruling Providence that directs what we are in- 
clined to misname ‘trivial’ matters, as truly as it ordains 
great events. I should lack courage to keep on living 
if I were to lose this faith. I was in great perplexity — 
at my wits’ end, I may say — when my daughter dropped 
the observation I have quoted. I may be mistaken in 
thinking you may be the man I am looking for. I have 
a strong conviction that I am on the right track.” 

This was the amazing preamble to a narration which 
held the listener spellbound for the next hour. 

The man whom his world accounted successful had 
cherished, for a score of years, an unsatisfied ambition. 
Avoiding the scientific and technical terms in which he 
laid the story before his chosen confidant, it is enough 
to say briefly that he had long been discontented with 
the methods and results of carrying on the manufactures 
committed to him by his father. The ore he was now 


A LONG LANE 


117 

raising from the mountain-mines was superior in cer- 
tain values to any that had yet rewarded his enterprises, 
and promised to lend itself to his darling project of 
making a finer quality of steel than had ever been put 
upon the American market. 

He had made a close study of foreign steels, and be- 
lieved that he might bring his metal to the like per- 
fection. He quickened his hearer’s respectful admira- 
tion to enthusiasm by the display of erudition heretofore 
unsuspected by the young man. Not one stage in the 
history of the metal which was his hobby had been over- 
looked by him. In speaking of Damascus steel he waxed 
eloquent. He held and believed for certain that steel 
was used in building the pyramids; he was, if possible, 
more positive in his conviction as to the Hindu process 
of fusing iron with carbon into what stupid translators 
had written down as “wootz.” — an older manufacture, 
perhaps, than that practised by the early Eg3^ptians. In 
Russia, there was now in operation a secret process which 
was producing the finest quality of steel the modern 
world had ever seen. Again and again he had believed 
himself upon the threshold of a discovery that would en- 
able him to vie with this. He had spent thousands of 
dollars in futile experiments. He had studied chemistry 
to this end; he had employed chemists and assayers to 
work under his direction — again and again, to fall just 
short of perfection — the perfection he knew was yet at- 
tainable. 

“I am putting myself unreservedly into your power, 
Mr. Lang,” was the conclusion of the marvellous con- 
fession. ‘‘Every man has a pet ambition — a desire 
which dominates every other. You may think mine 
ignoble. It is my one overmastering longing. If you 
will work with me for the next three months, I am san- 


n8 A LONG LANE 

guine that I shall come nearer to the goal than ever 
before.” 

He added that he had conducted his experiments in a 
private laboratory in the wing of his house, known as his 
private office. It was fully equipped with furnace, cruci- 
bles, blow-pipes and all the paraphernalia of the chemist’s 
trade. He did not ask for an immediate answer to what 
Mr. Lang might regard as the dream of a monomaniac. 
He did invite him to go with him to his laboratory, and in- 
spect the machinery there prepared for the furtherance of 
his design. Then he might take his time for deliberation. 

Receiving Norman’s affirmative reply, he asked him to 
wait a few minutes until he could give some orders at 
the mill, and left him to ruminate upon the revelation 
to which he had hearkened. 

For revelation it was, and one that wrought awe, as 
well as surprise, in the auditor. It was as if he had looked 
into the uncovered depths of a human soul; listened to 
the panting of a passion that possessed the entire nature 
of a man he, with the public at large, thought reason- 
able and self-contained far beyond the average of his 
kind. In a dreamy way — ^more like the gropings of a 
stunned mind than calm reasoning — ^Norman recalled 
something he had once heard said of another master of 
men: 

“He seems calm. It is Hecla, covered with snow and 
ice !” 

The ice-coating had been riven and he had drawn back, 
almost affrighted, at' the seething lava beneath. 

“And he really believes he was providentially directed 
to engage me to help bring his dream to pass !” he mur- 
mured aloud, dazed and fascinated. The still room gave 
back the echo made faint by the steady boom of cataract 
and mills. He bethought himself, now, that the accom- 


A LONG LANE 


119 


paniment had been a ceaseless hum while the strange story 
went on. In years to come, the memory would recur to 
him, unexpectedly, when the weird harmony filled his ears. 
And associated with it would ever be the thought of the 
uncovered volcano. 

He got up impatiently and walked to the window. He 
must think of commonplace things — things that really 
were — not the stuff dreams of power and wealth are made 
of. 

The afternoon sun turned the dancing torrent to gold 
and silver, and painted rainbow hues upon the spray. 
Beyond and above spread the ineffable blue of June 
skies. At the right of the fall a grove of giant hemlocks 
stretched back over the hills. Still, as in a dream, he 
recollected that he had strolled up the road leading 
through the heart of the wood last Sunday afternoon, 
just before sunset, with Sarah Van Dyck, and stopped to 
hear the thrushes trill responsive love-notes to one an- 
other in the green depths. 

“It is like being in church !” Sarah had whispered, and 
he thought as he often had thought before, what a pure, 
poetic fancy the child had. 

Disjointed musings, all of them — to be dismissed hur- 
riedly as Mr. Corlaer emerged from the door of the op- 
posite building and crossed the road toward him. 

On Monday morning the Ironmaster had his answer. 
Norman Lang would enter his employ as soon as he closed 
the school. Vacation would begin in one week from that 
memorable Saturday. 

Thus was brought to pass the arrangement announced 
by Margarita to Sarah in their cosy chat by the window 
overlooking the mill on the afternoon of the last meeting 
of the Ladies’ Aid before the Festival. 

It was the busiest time of the year with farmers and 


120 


A LONG LANE 


farmers’ wives. The heat of the weather may have com- 
bined with this circumstance in abating the stir and 
buzz and hum of gossip inevitable upon the establish- 
ment of new, and, to the mind of the neighbourhood, ex- 
traordinary relations between the two men. Had ex- 
planations been withheld, the breeze would not have died 
away so soon, and left so little dust and debris to be 
cleared up. 

Mr. Corlaer’s “fad” — (they called it plain “craze” 
then) — for Chemistry and such like occult sciences was an 
old story in the community, and what more natural than 
that the energetic schoolmaster should be willing to turn 
several honest dollars instead of loafing through the va- 
cation? He made no secret of his acquiescence in all 
this. He had done office-work in other vacations, and 
considered himself fortunate to be settled in a spacious 
wing of the homestead, where the front windows gave 
upon the shaded lawn, and the back, near which stood his 
desk, looked across the garden to the benignant swell 
of the mountain-range behind which the sun sank in 
golden pomp at evening. 

It was inevitable that the assistant should gradually 
glide into intimacy with the Corlaer family. At the farm- 
house it ceased to be a matter of remark when Mr. Lang 
did not appear at the one o’clock dinner. He was de- 
tained in the laboratory by Mr. Corlaer’s irregular ap- 
pearances, on account of engagements at the mills, or 
at the forge “up the mountain.” For awhile, motherly 
Mrs. Van Dyck pleased herself by putting aside choice 
tid-bits for her lodger’s supper, and, when his appetite 
was inadequate to the full enjoyment of the treat, pitied 
him for working so hard that he was “just clean tired 
out.” When she learned that Mrs. Corlaer insisted upon 
his dining with her household when he was thus detained, 


A LONG LANE 


121 


the good dame’s solicitude subsided into satisfaction 
that he was “thought so much of.” 

She enlarged upon the theme one sultry afternoon, 
as she sat upon the porch in the friendly shade of the 
cherry-tree, awaiting the homing of her “men folks.” 
That was the generic term for the masculine portion of 
every family in northern New Jersey. Sarah sat upon 
the upper step of the porch, hands folded in her lap, her 
white gown falling in billowy folds about her feet. The 
sanguine dyes of the west were reflected in palest and 
purest pink from a few cumulus clouds afloat above the 
eastern horizon, and the girl’s uplifted face caught the 
flush. She was the apple of her mother’s eye, as she was 
of her father’s. Neither would have surveyed her with 
the worshipful gaze bent upon her now from the semi- 
obscurity of the hall. Sauchy, in clean purple calico, as 
glossy and stiff as calendered cardboard, was taking her 
ease after her own fashion, upon a broad wooden stool, 
low enough to allow her to draw her knees to the level 
of the chin supported by her cupped hands. That she 
was there at all, and in a fresh clean gown, was proof 
positive that supper was, in Mrs. Van Dyck’s vernacular, 
“good and ready,” the hot biscuit wrapped in a napkin; 
the pork and beans waiting in the open oven; the big 
platter of “salmagundi,” covered from the flies, set before 
the master’s place, and the tea drawing with all its might 
upon the hob. 

Not until the men-folks were actually inside of the 
house and washing off the day’s grime at the sink in the 
back-kitchen, would the great pitchers of sweet- and but- 
ter-milk be brought from the cellar. 

“The churning turned out splendid to-day,” the con- 
tented dame broke the sunset-silence to say. “Not that 
it was likely to do any other way. For, if I do say it 


122 


A LONG LANE 


what shouldn’t, my butter has never failed to come for 
forty 3^ears. I’ve no manner of patience with these slack- 
twisted women who are everlastin’ly whinin’ about ‘poor 
luck’ with their milk. To my way of thinkin’, there’s no 
such thing as luck! When things go wrong somebody is 
to blame — every time! If we do right, everything will 
come out right. We have the Scripture for that ! ‘What- 
soever a man soweth that shall he also reap.’ What 
would we think of father if he was to plant ragweed 
and expect rye to come up?” 

Sarah gave her pleasant little laugh. 

“You have a comical way of putting things, mother! 
But you are right about the seed — and I suppose about 
the churning. Only — I feel sorry for people who go 
wrong — maybe once or twice, and then are punished for 
it all their lives. It doesn’t seem fair! I was just think- 
ing before you spoke of seeing Dick Walker down in the 
village to-day.” 

“You don’t say he’s out! Yet I might have known, 
if I had stopped to think, that he must have served his 
year. And he has the face to show himself ’round here 
among honest folks !” 

“Where else could he go, mother?” Sarah put in 
quietly and sadly. “He has no home except his moth- 
er’s house. Mr. Lang says it was so wrong as to be 
almost a crime to trust a boy of nineteen to handle the 
mail. Mr. Schenck had no right to take the place of 
postmaster unless he meant to discharge the duties of 
the postoffice. Mr. Lang says he was the one to be prose- 
cuted, not the boy he allowed to open the mails, and all 
that. The Walkers are terribly poor ” 

“And are likely to stay poor all their days !” inter- 
jected the notable matron. 

“That isn’t Dick’s fault, mother. He loves his mother 


A LONG LANE 


123 


dearly. She fell sick and there wasn’t a cent in the house, 
and when he sorted the mail, one day, out fell a letter that 
he could feel had money in it, and the temptation was 
too much for him. Mr. Lang was talking about it to 
the Dominie last night after the singing-class. I had 
to see Mrs. de Baun about the library-books, and I could 
hear what the gentlemen were saying. They were of one 
mind. The Dominie is trying to get something for Dick 
to do. His mother has worked herself almost to death, 
while he was away. Mrs. de Baun is going to bring the 
case before the Ladies’ Aid. She can sew beautifully. I 
was thinking, mother, that we might give her work once in 
a while 

She said it timidly — why, was quickly seen. 

‘‘Sarah Van Dyck! I am surprised at you! Do you 
think for a minute that I would have the mother of a 
jail-bird bangin’ around my house.? If she didn’t bring 
up her son to be honest and keep himself straight, she 
will have to take the consequences. There comes the 
Scripture again! She has made her bed and she must 
lie in it! It’s law and gospel!” 

“They don’t always say the same thing!” murmured 
the daughter, without turning her eyes from the fading 
clouds. 

“You don’t know what you are talking about, child! 
I’m real glad Will Corlaer is not here to hear you. He’s 
that strict and upright in his notions he’d think it real 
odd in you — raised as you have been. As for your 
father, he’d be right down scandalised. I’m sorry for 
Patsey Walker, but the sins of the children are visited 
upon parents as certain as the other way. They do say 
that Mr. Corlaer has done lots for her while her son 
was in jail. He’s a good man — is Mr. Corlaer — but there 
is such a thing as bein’ too charitable!” 


124 


A LONG LANE 


Sauchy’s cavernous eyes released their hold upon her 
idol’s face. Unobserved by the speakers, she had glow- 
ered out of the dark corner, lurking like a watchdog, 
intent upon the fluctuations of her darling’s countenance. 
Without taking in the trend of the dialogue, she per- 
ceived that it made the girl unhappy, and resented it as 
a dog might spring at one who struck his master. 

The sight of the figure crossing the bridge brought her 
forward. She leaned over to touch her sister-in-law’s 
shoulder. 

“Coming! Ice! Buttermilk!” 

She disappeared. 

“It’s so funny!” chuckled the hostess as Norman Lang 
ran fleetly up the winding path and stood before her. 
“Sauchy rushed off the minute she spied you, to get the 
ice for your buttermilk. She never forgets that you 
won’t drink tea when you can get my fresh buttermilk. 
And there come the rest of our men-folks! It’s time I 
was goin’ in!” 


CHAPTER XII 


D enizens of the Klnapeg Valley were wont to de- 
clare stoutly that they had a patent for the clear- 
est moonlight in the United States. They “didn’t pre- 
tend to account for it. They only knew it was soT^ 
And when a Jersey man with Dutch blood in his veins 
said a thing was “so !” all Christendom could not make 
him budge a hair’s breadth from his fortified opin- 
ion. 

Edward de Baun was a native of New York State, but 
long residence in the adjacent smaller commonwealth 
had won him over to many provincial beliefs. 

On the August night of which our last chapter bore 
the date, he was driving leisurely behind his well-fed 
and well-groomed roadster on the highway leading by 
easy degrees to the Van Dyck homestead. 

A breeze, weak and tentative, but betokening in quality 
its mountain birth, had stolen down to the valley at sun- 
set. 

“And makes existence more than tolerable,” observed 
the Dominie, with rising approval. “It almost matches 
the moon.” 

Silver-clear, she was smiling upon them from the 
wooded heights on their right. Hemlocks and pines were 
redolent of garnered perfume. 

“A fellow doesn’t mind the longest way ’round when 
he travels it on a night like this, and in company with his 
best girl,” quoth the well-trained husband of years, as 

125 


126 A LONG LANE 

they crossed the J>ridge spanning the narrowest part of 
the lake. 

Then, like the true-hearted gentleman he was, he punc- 
tuated the speech with a kiss. 

‘‘Good evenin’, Dominie!” said a familiar voice, and 
Case Van Dyck strolled around the end of the railing 
where the road turned sharply into one following the 
bank of the lake. 

“Havin’ a good time — ain’t you?” 

His chuckle was nearly a guffaw, and his companion 
gave a little scream. 

“Good evening. Case!” was the undismayed response. 
“Even Jersey law has nothing to say against a man’s 
making love to his own wife !” 

He drove on. 

His wife clutched his arm. 

“Ed, dear! how could you? Did you see who that 
was with him?” 

“Of course I did! It would have served him right if 
I had laid my whip across his shoulders. If Jo Scheffelin 
can’t stay sober long enough to keep his wife at home, 
somebody ought to interfere to save that young fool 
from disgracing his family. Those three boys have no 
brains to spare, but respect for their parents should 
make one of them ashamed of carrying on with a 
creature like that. She hasn’t a rag of reputation to 
her name! And that poor mother, pluming herself upon 
the superlative excellence of everything belonging to 
her!” 

“Don’t you suppose she guesses what is going on? 
Some busybody must have told her!” n 

“Not a bit of it! Who would dare! And if every 
man, woman and child in the state were to make affidavit 
to the truth of the story, she could not be made to be- 


A LONG LANE 


127 

lieve that one of the boys, raised by her and ‘Father,’ 
could go wrong. She is as blind as a mole where they are 
concerned. And if she is a mole, he is a bat — a blunder- 
ing, pompous bat!” 

“Don’t take it out upon poor old Frank!” his wife 
remonstrated as the whip got into play. “He, at least, 
isn’t leading a double life!” 

Her liege lord was not to be diverted from his sombre 
musings. 

“It is beyond my comprehension how these things 
come about! I see more than one family in my congre- 
gation — I might say more than half-a-dozen — that have 
been, as they would say, ‘religiously brought up.’ Yet, as 
soon as they arrive at what we fools and blockheads call 
‘years of discretion,’ they depart from the way in which 
they should go — Solomon to the contrary notwithstand- 
ing’ — as old Professor WyckofF used to say.” 

He grew grave again. “Sometimes I think that one of 
the most arrant humbugs ever foisted upon a credulous 
race is the figment that crime takes naturally to the city, 
and does not flourish in the country. Yet — ” he reined in 
his horse and pointed with his whip to the moon-bathed 
hills asleep against the horizon — “would not common 
sense and enlightened reason say that life amid scenes 
like these must be elevating to one’s better nature.? Is 
the sublime thought of ‘looking through Nature up to 
Nature’s God’ but a poet’s dream.? Worse still, is the 
preaching of the gospel of purity of life and noble think- 
ing a dead letter in our day.? Look at this region, 
for example. The godly forefathers of these people es- 
tablished three churches of our denomination within a 
radius of six miles. One antedates the Revolution by 
twenty years and more. Another was standing when 
Washington chased Howe from the Valley. The third — 


128 


A LONG LANE 


*my church/ as I love to think of it — has the best con- 
gregation of them all in numbers and in the quality of 
the membership. It is spoken of in Classis as ‘a Model 
Parish.’ God knows — and He alone — how hard I have 
tried to declare the Vhole counsel of God’ committed to 
my unworthy self. I might say too, with shame and con- 
fusion of face, that He alone knows how I have failed! — 
how I have f ailed 

His voice broke. A silent, slow shake of the head com- 
pleted the confession. 

“Darling Husband! I cannot let you slander your- 
self so cruelly ! This is sheer morbidness ! Dear ! God 
knows! You often say there is more comfort and 
strength in those two words than in a whole volume of. 
men’s teaching.” 

“There is! Blessed be His Holy Name! But, dear 
wife, when I see the tares growing faster than the wheat 
in the field He has called me to cultivate, what am I to 
think.? What is wrong in niy preaching and teaching.? 
The Gospel and Morality should be inseparable. We are 
not backward in warning our young people to flee from 
the wrath to come. After they are in the church, do we 
follow them up — as, for example, Paul admonished his 
converts.? Have you ever noticed what emphasis he lays 
— and continually — upon pure words, pure thoughts and 
right behaviour.? After Timothy, Paul’s dearly beloved 
son in the faith, was bishop of Ephesus, he is exhorted 
to ‘flee from youthful lusts,’ and reminded that a man 
who would be a vessel of honour in the Master’s house 
should ‘purge himself’ from lying, perjury, men-stealing, 
and all manner of sins against his fellows and his own 
body.” 

He was silent for a long minute. Then, words came 
slowly and hard. 


A LONG LANE 


129 


“I wonder, sometimes — I ask myself, upon the knees 
of my heart — if we who are accounted ‘educated preach- 
ers,’ do not talk too much of creeds and the needs of 
conversion and repentance, to the neglect of everyday, 
practical religion. That young fool back there is not a 
church-member, although his father thinks he ‘must come 
out on the Lord’s side, before long, being a child of the 
Covenant.’ The Elder can reel off Scripture by the yard. 
I never heard him balk at a text, or a Promise, in private 
life, or in prayer-meeting. His son is one of my fold. 
What Paul would do, were he in my shoes, would be to 
turn this horse and carriage about ; drive after the guilty 
couple and collar him — snatch him like a brand from the 
burning — and tell the ugly truth to both of them.” 

“My dear boy, it would set the whole family against 
you! You can’t convert a sinner by knocking him down. 
This is not St. Paul’s day. Different times, different 
manners !” 

“And different morals.?” queried the husband grimly. 
“But you are a wise adviser. The same counsel has been 
ringing in my ears for days — ever since I have known 
for certain what is going on under my eyes and the 
turned-up noses of a Christian community. Here we 
are!” checking his horse at the gate ending the crooked 
path opposite the mill. “Forget how cranky I have been, 
and help me play the hypocrite for an hour.” 

It was a hasty whisper, for Mr. Van Dyck was hurry- 
ing down the road to meet them. 

“I’ll hitch him. Dominie !” taking the tie-rein from the 
pastor’s hold. “You give Mrs. de Baun your arm up the 
Hill Difficulty. That’s what Mr. Lang calls it on hot 
days !” was his wheezing salutation. 

He, Mrs. Van Dyck and Sauchy were in the summer 
retreat under the arching cherry-tree. The sitting- 


130 


A LONG LANE 


room windows were wide open and the sound of music 
flowed through them. 

The de Bauns should have been too well-used to 
Sauchy’s eccentric ways to be amazed when, as the bril- 
liant prelude rippling under Sarah’s fingers was suc- 
ceeded by her voice, the aunt mounted upon the bench 
on which she had been sitting, and peered into the window. 
There she remained, apparently as flat against the white 
wall of the house as if pasted upon it. Her purple calico 
was black in the dense shadow. 

Mrs. Van Dyck apologised in an undertone: 

“She’s fair daft on music — and crazy about Sarah’s 
singing. As soon as they’re through this one piece, I 
must let them know you’re here. They’d never forgive 
me if I didn’t.” 

The minister and his wife were listening in good ear- 
nest to the ballad, sung as a duet. 

“One of my favourites !” breathed the lady ; “I have not 
heard it for a long time.” 

Our grandaunts revelled in Mrs. Hemans’s poetry and 
made it fashionable when it was set to music. All her 
ballads were sentimental. Some were religious. “The 
Messenger Bird” was both sentimental and religious. We, 
of a more enlightened age, concede patronisingly that the 
^Thin vein of poetry running through Felicia Hemans’s 
rhymes is sometimes exquisite in pathos and tender feel- 
ing,” yet two women wept, and one man sat with head 
bowed and fingers interlocked in reverent attention, while 
the blended voices upraised the strain: 

“Thou art qome from the Spirit-land, thou bird! 

Thou art come from the Spirit-land! 

Through the dark pine-grove let thy voice be heard 
And tell of the shadowy band. 


A LONG LANE 


131 


We know that thj bowers are green and fair 
In the light of that summer shore, 

And we know that the friends we have lost are there, 
They are there, and they weep no more. 


‘‘But tell us — but tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain! 
Can those who have loved forget? 

We call and they answer not again; 

O, say, do they love us yet? 

We call them far through the silent night 
And they speak not from cave or hill. 

We know, thou bird, that their home is bright. 

But say — do they love us still?” 


Only the cry of a smitten heart that found the way to 
the sanctum sanctorum of other yearning hearts, and 
lingered there for all time! 

Music-teachers in the early fifties were punctilious 
as to the enunciation of the words of songs learned by the 
pupil. Sarah Van Dyck was a docile and apt learner. 
Under the tuition of her singing-master she had acquired, 
not merely the art of expression of the composer’s mean- 
ing, but a certain sympathetic quality, that was pure 
in tone and marvellously sweet. 

The Dominie brought his hands together in noiseless 
applause when the song was done ; his wife was not 
ashamed to wipe her eyes dry, and Mrs. Van Dyck sniv- 
elled unreservedly. 

“Often as I hear it, I can’t help cryin’, no matter who 
sees it!” she quavered. “It seems to go so far down — 
somehow 1 Sarah, daughter ! here’s the Dominie and Mrs. 
de Baun ! Come out and see them !” 

All this time the flat figure against the wall had not 


132 


A LONG LANE 


stirred. Now the head was thrust further through the 
window and a raucous summons shot into the room: 

“Baby! Dominie! Dominie Isha!” 

Norman Lang started violently and looked arbund: 

“Did you know she was there all the time?” 

“I didn’t think anything about it,” laughed Sarah, 
shutting the piano. “I might have known it, though! 
She is very fond of that song, and she likes to hear me 
sing.” 

Deliberately raising the candle that had shed just 
enough light for the performers to follow the familiar 
lines of the music, Norman flashed it full upon the face 
supported by the chin upon the sill of the window. The 
wide, deeply-sunken eyes did not blink; the head was im- 
mobile. Norman’s audible shudder was not all affecta- 
tion. 

“Ugh ! It is ‘spooky’ to find her boring holes in a fel- 
low’s back with those big eyes, when he is oflP-guard!” 

The watcher was nowhere to be seen when the young 
people joined the party without. Sarah spread a shawl 
upon the turf close to Mrs. de Baun’s chair, disposing 
herself in one of the kittenish attitudes that became her 
rarely. The white moonlight showed the smile with which 
she looked up at her friend’s praise of her singing. 

“We do things best that we like to do,” she responded 
in her child-like way. “And I love ‘The Messenger Bird !’ 
I wish I could believe that there is one! In my copy of 
Mrs. Hemans a footnote says there is a, superstition in 
some country — India, I think — which tells of a bird that 
brings messages from the Other World. I wish it were 
true! It is lovely to think it might be!” 

Her sigh was sincere, and to Mrs. de Baun, pathetic. 
She was very fond of the girl. “A candle in the wrong 
socket,” she had described Sarah to her husband, that 


A LONG LANE 


133 


very day. “She will probably marry Will Corlaer and 
be suffocated by Margarita, and frozen by Mr. Corlaer 
for the rest of her life. The intellectual part of her 
would be dwarfed in her home but for the little Mr. 
Lang can do to develop it. She has improved marvel- 
lously through his influence. But she is the pet of the 
family — and she won’t be if she marries out of her rank. 
‘Rank’ is not just the word on this side of the ocean,” 
puckering her brows perplexedly. “Yet that is what she 
will do ! Thackeray puts the right word into George 
Warrington’s mouth. You recollect where he says to 
his friend — ‘Beware, Pen, how you marry out of your 
degree!’ ‘Degree!’ that is it, exactly! And that is what 
Mrs. Van Dyck’s daughter will do when she becomes 
Will Corlaer’s wife!” 

“Which she is quite sure to be before long,” was the 
reply. “Mrs. Van Dyck told me in so many words, the 
other day, that ‘Sarah is as good as engaged to Will Cor- 
laer.’ She hedged a little by saying that ‘of coijrse 
we don’t want it spoken of, except to such friends as you 
and Mrs. de Baun.’ ” 

“My poor child!” the wife had said, feelingly. 

She reiterated it inly, to-night, her fingers stroking 
the hand that closed fondly upon them. The child had 
been brought up too delicately for her station. But she 
would not fit easily into that held for generations by the 
Corlaers. 

It was a pity Norman Lang was so evidently her 
teacher, and nothing more! He could take her away 
from the fussy mother, the boastful father, the bovine 
brothers — the impossible aunt whose namesake she 
was — 

The mental matchmaking was suspended by hearing her 
husband ask the farmer: 


134 


A LONG LANE 


“Where are all the boys this evening?” 

“O, rambling around the village, I suppose — or visit- 
ing the girls. ‘Promiscuously’ — as one might say. 
’Seems to me, young folks must find it duller’n ditch- 
water in summer. It’s too hot to stop in-doors and 
there’s nothin’ amusin’ goin’ on there, if they do. Young 
blood wants to be on the go. My! but I’ve seen colts 
what had been in harness for ten hours, roll in the grass 
and kick up their heels and whinney the minute the 
straps were undone ’nd the bridle taken out of their 
mouths. It’s natural 1 that’s what it is 1 So, Mother 
and I never interfere with the boys’ comin’s and goin’s. 
Start ’em right and then give ’em their heads 1 say I. 
Not but what I wish some of them — or all three — would 
keep steady company with nice girls and settle down in 
the mattermonial yoke. I was married before I was 
twenty-one and we hain’t never been sorry for it once 
since, hey, old lady?” making a long arm to poke her in 
the ribs with his emptied pipe. 

“Speak for yourself!” parrying the thrust, and, as 
is the manner of contented .wives, refusing to meet him 
halfway. “Not that I’m complainin’. We all have our 
ups and downs, or we wouldn’t ever want to go 
to heaven. But, as Father was sayin’, the only 
amusement young folks in the country have at any 
season of the year is courtin’ ! ’Seems-if they was 
driven to it for the want of some variety in their work-a- 
day life.” 

“Rather an agreeable amusement — isn’t it?” said 
Lang, good-humouredly. 

“That depends upon several conditions !” It was the 
Dominie who took up the word at this point. “Some- 
times it is about the worst business two people can be 
engaged in.” He went on as brusquely. “I was talking 


A LONG LANE 


135 

to my wife this very evening of what Mr. Van Dyck has 
brought forward so strongly — the sameness of country- 
life for our young men and women. The only library we 
have is locked up in the Sunday School-room all the week, 
and is composed almost entirely of religious books. If 
we had some kind of common centre — a meeting-place 
where young people could play games, read the papers 
and become acquainted with one another under the friend- 
ly care of a committee of ladies, who would, say, once 
or twice a week, provide simple refreshments for them, — 
I believe we should have a more orderly and a happier 
community. We might get up a debating-society once 
a month in which we older fellows could take a hand. 
Mr. Lang! get your brains to work upon the skeleton I 
have given you. And when you have digested the scheme 
(it is hardly that yet!) come to the Parsonage and talk 
it over with me.” 

Before the stunned Van Dycks could catch their breath, 
he was off upon another tack: 

“One object of my visit this evening, Mr. Van Dyck, 
was to enlist your sympathies in behalf of that unfor- 
tunate boy, Dick Walker. It is for us to make a decent. 
God-fearing citizen of him, or to let him sink into viler 
depths than those from which he has just emerged. This 
poor lad has been in hell for a year! We owe a duty to 
him and to ourselves to bring him back to himself. I 
want you and other Christian men to hold out a helping 
hand to him. Give him a chance, my dear friend! 
Haven’t you farm- work, or a job in the mill.f^ If you, 
stand by him, the example will be followed by others. 
He is at work now in the Parsonage-garden, but he ought 
to have regular employment. It is the only hope of 
keeping him straight.” 

Mrs. Van Dyck’s mind moved more quickly than her 


A LONG LANE 


136 

husband’s, and she found her tongue while he was casting 
about for suitable periods: 

Dominie de Baun! I can’t think you are in 
earnest! There is such a thing as carryin’ charity that 
thinks no evil too far. I know you mean to do the right 
thing by the fellow, but it scares me to think what will be 
said when people see a jail-bird at work in the Parson- 
age garden. I’m afraid there will be an awful scandal 
about it. I do hope and pray that Rebecca Jane will 
keep the doors locked while you are out, and that she 
took the silver upstairs. I shouldn’t sleep a wink 
for a week if that rascal had such an opportunity to know 
where 1 keep my silver and jewelry. 

“It’s more’n likely that he seen you cornin’ through the 
village, and knows there’s nobody in the house to take 
care of it and those blessed children but one widow-woman 
what ain’t strong, and one slip of a girl. I declare — ” 
her imagination warming to its work — “it makes my 
blood run cold to think what might be happenin’ at this 
very minute! ’‘A hardened criminal like that wouldn’t 
stop at stealin’ all he could lay his hands upon, tie’d 
do murder^ s quick-as-look, if he was interfered with!” 

For the thousandth time in his eight years’ pastorate, 
the Dominie’s ineradicable sense of humour got the better 
of rising temper. He laughed outright, and Sarah and 
Mr. Lang joined in — she faintly, he with his whole heart. 

“My dear Mrs. Van Dyck!” the minister contrived to 
ejaculate before she could rally her scattered forces. 
“What an imagination you have ! I would back Rebecca 
Jane against three slim fellows like Dick Walker. I 
have no fear of his playing the burglar until he has had 
more experience. He’s as thin as a rail and as bloodless 
as a picked chicken. Housebreaking and bloodshedding 
are just what we mean to save him from. His mother is 


A LONG LANE 


137 


a good woman, and a hard worker. My wife hopes to in- 
duce some of the ladies in the church to find steady work 
for her.” 

‘‘She’ll get none from meP’ interrupted the virtuous 
matron — setting her teeth tight behind the thin lips that 
betokened shrewish tendencies. “Not but what I’m sorry 
for her ! It must break a mother’s heart to have her 
child disgrace her as he’s done. It’s no use, Dominie, 
to try to wash out a stain upon a fam’ly reputation. 
There’s a text that comes up to me oftentimes when I 
hear folks talk about reformin’ hardened sinners — ‘How 
can I bless them what God has cursed.?’ I was sayin’ 
something like that to Sarah just before supper. And 
that brings me ’round to your ideas of keepin’ young 
folks good and respectable by amusin’ them. What I 
say — as maybe hadn’t ought to say it — is that if you 
train up your children in the way they had ought to go — 
sendin’ them to Sunday School and takin’ them to Church 
o’ Sunday, and evenin’ meetin’ in the week, and seein’ 
they are clean and well-behaved and industrious, you have 
the promise that they will not depart from it when they 
are old and grey-headed. Think of Samuel and Jacob 
and Abraham and David ! The promise was to them and 
their children. And I’ve heard Father say twenty times 
over, that the Lord doesn’t change His ways with His 
people.” 

“Your husband is right, my dear lady! I believe in 
Covenant-promises as devoutly as you two can. But 
when Samuel’s sons took bribes from the people, and 
coveted riches, God did not allow them to succeed their 
father as rulers of Israel. Jacob neglected his older chil- 
dren because he loved Joseph and Benjamin better than 
he loved poor Leah’s boys and girl. We know what 
sorrow and chastisement were the consequences; Abra- 


A LONG LANE 


138 

ham may have brought up Isaac in the nurture and ad- 
monition of the Lord, but what about Esau, and the 
shameful trick goody-goody Jacob practised upon him? 
As for David — his darling Absalom would have killed his 
father but for his cousin Joab — and Solomon, the wisest 
man in his generation, has left as his epitaph — ‘Vanity 
of vanities, all is vanity!’ The children may have been 
what we call ‘letter-perfect.’ The teaching did not go 
as far down as it should have done. There was purity of 
doctrine all right. The duty of purity of heart and life 
should have gone along with it. ‘These things ye ought 
to have done and not left the others undone.’ ” 

He arose and pulled out his watch, turning it to catch 
the silver-white light falling between the boughs. 

“Ten o’clock, and after! I am ashamed of myself — 
and of my wife’s failure to remind me that I was preach- 
ing too long! She lets me see her watch on the sly when 
I get long-winded in church. I hope you wiU all try to 
forgive me.?” 

At the first turn in the homeward drive, he groaned : 

“I have scored another failure! This is growing mo- 
notonous ! monotonous !” 


CHAPTER XIII 


I N the farthest corner and at the left of the Parsonage 
garden, in the angle formed bj the fence with that 
separating it from the grave-yard on one side, and the 
church-green upon the other, was an arbour overrun with 
a hop-vine. The pastor had built the summer-house 
and planted the roots of the vine in the first year of his 
occupancj^ of the manse. In dimensions it was modelled 
upon the famous “boudoir” in which Cowper wrote poetry 
and talked with his friend and neighbour, the dissenting 
minister. 

“It will hold two chairs and a table,” wrote the owner 
to Lady Hesketh. 

Edward de Baun had visited Olney as a college-boy, 
and brought away lasting memories of house and grounds, 
together with a slip of hardy southern-wood from a clump 
growing against the “boudoir” waU. Instead of the walls 
and glazed window of the English “summer-house,” the 
Parsonage arbour was filled on three sides with lattice- 
work. The fourth was an open arch facing the church 
and draped by the fast-growing vines. The two chairs 
were clumsily built by the amateur carpenter, and the 
table matched them in style. A tight roof kept off the 
rain, and after the first summer, screens of lush greenery 
secured seclusion for the occupant. He called the nook 
his “al fresco study.” His wife spoke of it — but to him 
alone — as the “confessional.” 

“It is too far from the house for your confidences to 
139 


140 


A LONG LANE 


be heard by eaves-droppers,” she would say. ^‘The 
church is shut and empty all the week. On the other side — 
there is no danger of listeners !” 

It was upon this other side that the Dominie had con- 
structed a wicket gate in the fence through which he 
might pass in and out, unseen, from the house and street, 
and lose himself in the shrubbery shading family “sec- 
tions” and detached tombstones. Tall trees, their trunks 
hoary with years, grew about the Corlaer vault. Clumps 
of hardy roses and althea boomed in their season, and 
were in rank foliage all summer long. The Holland emi- 
grants had left to their descendants reverence for the 
final resting-place of family and friends. 

In the Kinapeg church-yard there was hardly a mound 
that had not a memorial stone. In the main, the ceme- 
tery was consonant with our minister’s ideas of condi- 
tions favourable to “meditations among the tombs.” I 
may subjoin that, being a man of original thought, and 
deeds begotten of healthy thought, he preferred his own 
meditations to the sombre banalities of James Hervey 
of blessed memory. 

He had returned from a stroll in the church-yard one 
September afternoon, with the text of his Sunday’s ser- 
mon and a well-arranged analysis of the subject in his 
mind, and sat himself down in one of the weather-stained 
chairs with the formulated intention of doing and think- 
ing nothing for the next half-hour. He had found that 
indolence, actual and absolute, usually produced in his 
spirit and intellect what he knew in chemistry as “a pre- 
cipitate and a settlement.” To facilitate the process, he 
lighted his pipe and pulled easily and slowly upon it. 

The hop-vine concealed him from view of the few pass- 
ers in the road shaded by lusty elms, yet supplied con- 
venient peep-holes through which he could spy upon the 


A LONG LANE 


141 

outer world across the intervening garden. The Brouwer 
mansion was diagonally opposite the Parsonage, and the 
first moving object to cross his field of vision was a low 
pony-chaise — a late acquisition of the Brouwer twins. 
It was drawn by a piebald pony ; a small coloured foot- 
boy occupied the rack behind, and the sisters were upon 
the seat in front of him. Rhoda was driving, and her bell- 
like tones carried what she was saying to the watcher’s 
ears : 

‘‘Mrs. Corlaer thinks it is getting cool enough to have 
chocolate instead of lemonade. She will furnish it.” 

The Dominie’s smile was well-pleased. The world and 
he were singularly at peace just now. He reckoned it 
as a special and memorable providence that a casual al- 
lusion in Timothy O.’s hearing to his pet project of pro- 
viding for young people of both sexes counter-attractions 
to those the powers of darkness had laid for the unwary 
seeker for diversion, had brought forth fruit an hundred- 
fold. The self-made man had a true heart under the 
froth and flare of his overweening self-conceit. If, 
throughout all that followed his animated acquiescence in 
the new scheme, he aimed at further glorification 
of His Eminence, Mr. de Baun was too broad-minded and 
too much engaged in the advancement of the scheme to 
quibble at trifles. His coadjutor brought to bear upon 
it the energy and sagacity that had raised him from the 
dust and set him among princes of finance. With dizzy- 
ing rapidity he not only demonstrated the feasibility of 
the project, but he pledged material support and told 
what shape it would take. 

He owned, along with many other bits of real estate 
which had dropped into the market at one time or an- 
other, an old stone house standing in the very centre of 
the settlement now dignified as a “village.” It antedated 


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the Revolutionary War and it had historical associations 
the burghers were proud to recount to strangers. Had 
the preceding generation been more ambitious and imagi- 
native, it would have taken rank with multitudinous 
■^‘Headquarters” that have branded the Father of his 
Country as a discontented nomad, to the embryo archeolo- 
gist. As it was, the building was known as the “Guard 
House.” Oldest resident’s fables were credible to the 
extent of accepting certain dents in the oaken flooring as 
marks made by Washington’s body-guard in ground- 
ing their muskets, when stationed there for a month. The 
Guard House now belonged to Timothy O. Brouwer, and 
was offered, free of rent, to the as-yet nameless organisa- 
tion to-be. The lower story (it had but one-and-a-half) 
consisted of a large room and a lean-to. Inside of a 
fortnight the resolute benefactor of his kind had the 
place cleaned thoroughly, replastered and kalsomined ; 
the leaks in the roof mended, the windows glazed, and 
the floor relaid, the musket-dents downward. The next 
week the Guard House, still minus a new name — ^was for- 
mally opened with prayer by Mr. de Baun, and a supper 
was served for all who would come. It was decently fur- 
nished with tables and chairs donated by different friends 
of the movement; a few pictures, neatly framed, — three 
from Rhoda Brouwer’s pencil and brush — were hung, and 
a supply of crockery and napery — the latter the gift of 
Mrs. Corlaer, and hemmed by the Ladies’ Aid — was in the 
old cupboards built in the wall. Young people brought 
games — dominoes, checkers, jack-straws, battledores and 
shuttlecock, grace-sticks and hoops, and the Dominie se- 
cured through city friends yearly subscriptions to 
Godey^s Lady Booh, The New York Tribune and The 
Christian Intelligencer. 

Finally — (and can we doubt that record of the Chris- 


A LONG LANE 


143 


tian act was made in heaven?) through the powerful in- 
fluence of Mrs. Corlaer — braced by her husband and 
doughty Timothy O. Brouwer — Mrs. Walker, whose lowly 
cottage was close beside the Guard House, was installed 
as care-taker and janitress. Mr. Corlaer and Timothy 
O. made themselves responsible for her wages. 

Her son had called upon the Dominie and volunteered 
the pledge ‘‘never to set foot inside the door.” 

He had received the ex-convict just here, the pastor 
reflected, his eyes watering in the reminiscence. He had 
laid his hand upon the shabby but clean jacket, in telling 
the son that he had offered himself as security for his 
good behaviour. “I can trust you, Dick, not to do any- 
thing to injure her. I have never forgotten — I can never 
forget — and you have other friends who will always re- 
member, that it was for her that you made your — Mis- 
taJcer 

(Dear Lord! — Thou Who art “faithful and — just to 
forgive us our sins” — grant, that, when our day of reck- 
oning shall come, we may find in Thy Book of Remem- 
brance some of our manifold sins written down as “mis- 
takes I”) 

Among the well-to-do parishioners who had contributed 
to the Guard House plenishing, the Van Dycks were con- 
spicuous by their absence. The Elder and his stronger 
two-thirds had not openly opposed what the Corlaers and 
Brouwers set on foot and pushed forward. Neither did 
they discourage their daughter, when she attended two 
or three functions held in the transformed building. The 
boys sauntered in one evening, played a game of dominoes 
to show their proficiency in a pastime which was new 
to many of the crowd, drank lemonade and ate cake and 
lounged out, singly, in quest — the Dominie suspected and 
Lang knew — of less respectable company. 


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A LONG LANE 


Despite the wet-blanket drippings, the father of the 
new departure had abundant cause for gratification in 
summing up results. In fancy, he saw a membership that 
would embrace every youth in the parish; the erection of 
a hall of noble proportions ; a library and a reading- 
room; perhaps a gymnasium. He held to the conviction 
that a healthful development of bone and sinew is no 
mean weapon in the fight with corrupt instincts. With- 
out guessing it, our country-parson was a quarter-cen- 
tury in advance of his day. 

He had told Norman Lang of the reply made by a back- 
country farmer whom he overtook in the road one day, 
trying to coerce or persuade a balky horse to move on. 
Just as the minister reached him, the farmer stooped to 
scrape up a handful of loose dirt and work it into the 
beast’s mouth. 

“Why do you do that.^” called the amazed spec- 
tator. 

“To give him a new idee!'’ was the reply, as the victor 
jumped into the wagon and drove off. 

Still curious to get at the genius of the trick, Mr. de 
Baun gave chase, shouting — “Does it always work.^” 

‘^Sometimes it do! sometimes it don’t.” 

“I never saw the man before and I don’t know his 
name,” pursued the narrator to his co-labourer. “But 
he gave me a text and a lesson. The first step in a re- 
form is to give the subject a ‘new idee.’ That is what 
I am aiming at now. Sometimes — as with the Van Dyck 
boys — -‘it don’t !’ At least, not yet.” 

While he recalled the words, he heard the click of the 
wicket in the fence behind him and leaned forward, some- 
what impatiently, to see who the intruder might be. 

The shade of annoyance passed as Norman Lang stood 
in the archway. 


A LONG LANE 


145 


‘‘A clear case of ‘silent, secret, sacred sympathy of 
soul !’ ” quoted the minister, when they had shaken hands. 
“You were the man in my thoughts at that very minute. 
I might have known that you would appear pretty soon. 
Sit down !” He pulled forward the second chair. 

“I took a short cut through the cemetery, hoping I 
might find you here,” said the visitor, seriously. 

His face had lines his friend had never seen there be- 
fore. He was pale, and there were shadows under the 
eyes usually well-opened and clear. 

“My dear fellow! you are not well!” ejaculated the 
Dominie. “What is the trouble.?” 

“You used the right word, sir. I have come to you 
with a message from Mrs. Van Dyck. Case has run away 
with Jo Scheffelin’s wife! Both have been missing four 
days. He went to Millville on business for his father 
last Friday morning. She joined him there, and neither 
has been seen hereabouts since.” 

He raised his hand to check the exclamation upon 
the lips of the horrified auditor: — 

“Nor is that the worst of it! He carried several hun- 
dred dollars to the bank to be deposited for his father. 
I went to Millville this morning to make inquiry at the 
bank. He did not deposit a cent of it! Moreover, he 
presented a forged check and drew out every dollar his 
father had there upon deposit. His handwriting and 
Mr. Van Dyck’s are singularly alike. We have often re- 
marked upon the similarity. Perhaps our talk may have 
put the idea into his head. The cashier paid the money 
readily. Case was in the habit of attending to all such 
matters for his father.” 

If Edward de Baun’s keen perceptive powers and ana- 
lytic mind had not been jarred out of poise by the news, 
he must have marvelled at the symptoms of emotion in 


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A LONG LANE 


one usually self-contained. As it was, horror and indig- 
nant pity possessed him to the exclusion of conjecture. 

“The infamous rascal!” he broke forth. “You may 
well say ‘the worst of it!’ Something might be forgiven 
to the heat of youthful passion. Although this coarse 
amour is of long standing, and has not that claim to char- 
ity. The theft is out-and-out deviltry ! And to steal from 
the most indulgent father that ever doted upon his boys ! 
How does he bear it? Had any rumour of the connection 
ever reached him?” 

Lang shook his head, without change in his lifeless tone 
and look : 

“None! The blow was as sudden as it was heavy. He 
is completely crushed. When I broke the news to him 
as gently as I could, he fell back in his chair, as if shot, 
and did not speak or move for so long that we feared he 
had had a stroke of apoplexy. When he revived, he was 
still like one stunned. Mrs. Van Dyck was the first to 
meet me when I got home from Millville, and would go 
with me into the room where her husband was sitting. 
I helped her get him up to bed. Neither of the other sons 
was at home. After a while, Mr. Van Dyck began to cry 
like a hurt child, and I left them together. The tears 
may have saved his brain. In an hour or so, she came 
down and said he was asleep. Then it was that she asked 
me to come to you. Can you go, soon.?” 

“At once! It is the place where I ought to be. I 
will get my horse and buggy and you will go with me. We 
will save time. I take it you would rather not go into 
the house and talk to Mrs. de Baun — or to any one else?” 
He added the last words hastily, seeing the young man 
wince as at a stab. “Just sit still where you are ! I shall 
be back in a few minutes.” 

Left to himself, Norman Lang dropped his head upon 


A LONG LANE 


147 


the table and groaned aloud. He would have said that 
the events of the day, following close and hard upon one 
another; the necessity laid upon him of bearing the 
shameful tidings to the confiding parents ; the sight of 
their grief — in short, the whole shocking affair — had not 
let him think coherently until now. He had walked fast, 
and a host of horrors had whipped him onward. There 
was partial respite from the scourging in the stillness 
and solitude of the spot. He even perceived and drank 
in involuntarily the spiciness of the southernwood warmed 
by the sun, the bitter-sweet of the hop-blooms swinging in 
the doorway. It is still an unsolved psychological prob- 
lem how trifles too insignificant to arrest attention in 
calmer moments insinuate themselves upon the tortured 
senses in the supreme moments of life, and become inde- 
structible elements of memories. 

The Dominie forcibly denied himself the solace of con- 
fiding to his wife even an outline of the tragedy that called 
him away. He ran into the house for his hat and dust- 
coat, and told her that he was going to take Mr. Lang 
home, and might not be back for an hour or so. She was 
rocking her baby in her arms upon the front porch and 
kissed the father “Good-bye,” smilingly, with never a 
thought of aught amiss. 

“But she will go over to see them to-morrow, I know,” 
he said to his passenger on the road. “It will be a com- 
fort to Sarah to see her. She has a soft place in her 
heart for the girl. She and her brothers are as different 
as the children of the same mother could 'be, but she is 
fond of the boys, and she is sensitive. The disgrace will 
be harder upon her than upon her parents. I could 
thrash that hound within an inch of his life when I think 
of it. I have known for months something of his carry- 
ing-on. I had my suspicions when he moved his bed over 


A LONG LANE 


148 

to the mill, ‘because it was cooler there,’ and took to 
sleeping there every night. His mother talked of it as a 
joke, and harped upon the wisdom of her plan of bringing 
up children in the right way, and then trusting them to 
do as they please. I wonder how many times I have heard 
her say, ‘Boys will be boys. Father !’ when he had a gleam 
of reason with regard to managing them ! Ah, well, poor 
woman! she is punished beyond her deserts. Her failing 
was of the head, not the heart. She has lived in, and for 
her children — particularly her sons. Sarah is her fa- 
ther’s pet. A good girl — if ever there was one 1” 

“She will be his greatest comfort,” answered the other, 
more naturally than he had spoken in their talk in the 
summer-house. “Mrs. Van Dyck will be sorry for her 
husband, but more sorry for herself. Her pride will suf- 
fer terribly.” 

The next bend in the road brought the farmstead into 
view. The Dominie raised his whip to point to the abode 
of peace and plenty it looked to be. The spacious barns 
in the rear ; the mill at the side ; the great trees clustering 
about the white house ; the gardens upon the lower level — 
all bespoke wise thrift in the owners of the demesne. 

“It is enough to break one’s heart to think of the mis- 
ery and the shame brought upon it by one vicious, worth- 
less boy! Ah, there’s the keenest sting of all! One may 
live down anything else. And they have lived clean, hon- 
est lives for generations — and gloried in it — gloried in 
it!” 


CHAPTER XIV 


R ebecca jane waited upon the supper-table that 
night in a state of suppressed excitement that 
would have amused her employers if their own thoughts 
had not been engrossed by the same matters that over- 
flowed her brain. As it was, her substitution of the vine- 
gar cruet for the cream-jug when Mr. de Baun would 
have dressed his peaches to his liking, and her failure to 
put butter upon the table, passed without verbal notice. 

It was a distinct grievance to the maid-of-all-work that 
Mr. de Baun invited his wife to walk in the garden with 
him, when the meal was over and the children were snugly 
disposed of in bed and crib. 

A pair of avid eyes followed the two in their prome- 
nade up one walk and down another, at no time coming 
near enough to the dining-room window for her to catch 
a word of the discourse, evidently of absorbing interest 
to narrator and listener. Disappointment waxed into 
exasperation when they, at last, entered the summer- 
house and, she could see by the intermittent flashes of 
the Dominie’s pipe, were seated for a long conversation. 

The germ-theory finds its most triumphant demonstra- 
tion in the natural history of gossip. A pursuivant her- 
ald, with trumpet blowing and flag flying, could not have 
spread the news of the Van Dyck scandal further and 
faster than it had been carried from end to end of Kina- 
peg township. There was no systematic, much less con- 
certed effort to disseminate the ugly seeds. Yet they were 

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afloat in the air like thistle-down, as noisome and as 
fecund as blue-bottle flies, and found their way into every 
house. Rebecca Jane had not set foot outside the Par- 
sonage grounds that day, and had had no visitors except 
that the Brouwers’ cook had run over with Miss Ruth’s 
compliments and a basket of peaches. She did not stay 
ten minutes, being in a hurry to get back to her baking. 
She left with her congener stuff for cogitation that lasted 
her far into the night-watches. 

The evening was bland and in the ante-railway period 
in Kinapeg, mosquitoes had not invaded the valley. The 
“confessional” was safely secluded from chance eaves- 
droppers, and the budget to be unfolded was large. 

A pensive star shone upon the pair above the roof of 
the church, and the occasional droning sweep of a bat 
joined in with katy-dids and the distant boom of a bull- 
frog from the creek. The tassels of the hop-vine were 
motionless in the breezeless night, and their bitter-sweet 
breath was lost in the incense of the warmed southern- 
wood. The Dominie had perceived and remarked upon 
the odour before lighting his pipe. 

By the time he had drawn a dozen slow whiffs he sub- 
sided into sustained and calmer recitation: 

“It is not strange that the mother should throw most 
of the blame upon the woman who, she honestly thinks, 
led her son astray against his will. ‘He has the nicest 
disposition of the three,’ she told me over and over. ‘I 
had no trouble in managing him when he was a child. 
You could coax him into anything. And that’s what that 
wicked wretch did! And they tell me it’s been goin’ on, 
nobody knows how long. Why didn’t somebody tell me? 
It looks as if I hadn’t a friend in the world.’ 

“ ‘You wouldn’t have believed it, Mrs. Van Dyck, if fifty 
people had told you,’ I could not help saying. But I 


A LONG LANE 


151 

had an awful qualm of conscience in recollecting that 
night we met them by the bridge, and our talk afterward. 
God forgive me if I have been an unfaithful shepherd of 
these lambs !” 

‘‘Cornelius Van Dyck is no lamb! He is twenty-eight 
years old,” the sensible wife reminded him. “Go on I 
Where was Mr. Van Dyck while you talked to her.?” 

“Lying in bed with a wet cloth on his forehead. Sarah 
sat by him, putting fresh cloths on when the others got 
warm. Now and then he groaned piteously, and she 
would chafe his hands and pat them. Once I saw her 
stoop to kiss his forehead. At that he began to sob. 
He had succumbed utterly. Mrs. Van Dyck told me in his 
hearing and with much bitterness, that the loss of the 
money would cripple him seriously. I could see that was 
harder for her to forgive than stealing another man’s 
wife. Even that she attributed to the evil influence of the 
woman he ran away with. She had no words at her call 
that were too vile for her. That is the way with moth- 
er3.” 

“And no wonder!” responded the mother of his son. 
“Tell me about Sarah! She was so engrossed with con- 
cern for her father that she said nothing of herself, you 
say.?” 

“I had no opportunity to speak with her alone. By 
and by, the poor father groaned out to me — ‘Won’t you 
pray with us. Dominie.?’ and we knelt down around his bed 
and I prayed for him and the mother and for the erring 
boy. Then I thought we ought not to excite him by fur- 
ther talk, and came away. Mrs. Van Dyck went down- 
stairs with me, and wanted to know if ‘that SchefFelin 
thing couldn’t be arrested for making Case steal the 
money and afterward receiving it.’ ‘Of course,’ she said, 
‘Father wouldn’t think of putting the law on his son. 


152 


A LONG LANE 


But something had ought to be done with that ’ 

I won’t repeat the word! It sounded odd from her 
mouth. But she was hardly sane — poor woman 1” 

‘‘It is terrible 1” mused the wife. “I am more sorry for 
Sarah than for any one else. The shame of it will cling 
to her — the one who is absolutely innocent of any part 
or lot in the sin. The parents spoiled the son; the 
woman tempted him, and he sinned. The pure, modest 
girl will feel the weight of the calamity most severely. 
Ed! do you suppose Will Corlaer will stand by her now.? 
She has not looked like herself since he went away, a 
month ago. And has he ever made so long a business- 
trip before.? It would be a genuine affliction to me if 
they were not to be married after all. 

“He talked very frankly to me a week or so before he 
went to California on this trip. He had asked Sarah 
over and over to marry him, but they were not really 
engaged. She was unwilling to accept him while his par- 
ents are opposed to the engagement. He vows he will 
never give her up. I shall lose all respect for him if he 
lets this matter alter his resolution. Yet the Corlaers 
would be likely to object to the match now, if never be- 
fore. 

“Dear ! dear ! what a wretched complication ! Where 
was Sauchy all this time.?” returning to the main sub- 
ject. “Did you see her.?” 

“She was getting supper as coolly as if nothing hap- 
pened. I saw her through the door of the dining-room 
and said, ‘Good evening!’ The table was set for the 
whole family.” 

“She always does that! She cannot be made to un- 
derstand that anybody is absent, and they let her have 
her way,” interpolated Mrs. de Baun. “Did she show 
any consciousness that all was not quite as it should be.? 


A LONG LANE 


153 

Do you know, dear, I have fancied sometimes that she 
has something like second-sight — or at least, a sixth 
sense? You recollect how she stopped Carrie Corlaer’s 
elopement ?” 

The husband laughed, superior to the whim. 

“She was as cool as a cucumber this evening. Mrs. 
Van Dyck, who comprehends her gibberish better than 
anybody else, translated what she rattled off to me. 
‘She is afraid Sarah is sick, and is very angry with the 
person — whoever it was, who made Sarah cry to-day,’ 
the mother told me. Also, that she had been cooking pan- 
cakes for Sarah’s supper, and I must stay to eat some. 
I shook hands with Sauchy and thanked her, but said 
you would expect me home. 

“At that minute, Mr. Lang came down stairs. He 
had changed his clothes for a spruce suit that looked 
new, and wore a different face — even to complexion. His 
eyes were not quite right yet, though, and he appeared to 
put a force upon himself to speak cheerfully. 

“ ‘I am going to impose my company upon you again, 
Mr. de Baun,’ he said in his finest manner. ‘I am to 
take supper at Mr. Corlaer’s. May I have a seat in your 
buggy as far as his corner?’ 

“Whereupon Mrs. Van Dyck actually giggled feebly, 
and shook her finger at him. 

“ ‘I guess we shan’t see much of you at meals after 
this!’ she said. ‘We can’t expect it, but we shall miss 
you all the same.’ 

“After we were in the wagon, Lang volunteered an ex- 
planation of the odd speech. 

“ ‘I meant to call upon you this afternoon on my own 
business,’ he began in a formal way. ‘I have what are 
important communications to make to you as the Cor- 
kers’ pastor and, I hope — my friend. First, let me say 


154 


A LONG LANE 


that I am engaged to be married to Miss Margarita Cor- 
laer. It was to that Mrs. Van Dyck alluded. I told the 
family of it last night.’ ” 

The narrator was disappointed that the tidings did 
not amaze his wife. 

‘T imagined that would be the end of it !” she observed, 
sagaciously. “You see, while Mrs. Corlaer and Carrie 
were at Saratoga Springs — ostensibly for Carrie’s health, 

• — really to give her, like your farmer with his balky 
horse, a ‘new idee’ — Margarita had charge of the house- 
keeping and ran things generally to suit herself. It suited 
her to have Mr. Lang often to dinner and supper during 
the hot weather. ‘It was such a long walk to the Van 
Dji^cks’ in the heat of the day, and father sometimes 
worked with him in the laboratory until night,’ etcetera, 
etcetera. The long and the short of the matter is, my 
dear, that Margarita set her cap full and hard at your 
friend, and got him! She is satisfied — and so (presum- 
ably) is he!” 

“My darling! you are sarcastic! What have you 
against the fellow.^ I thought you liked him.f^ As every- 
body else does !” 

“I have nothing ‘against him!’ He is a mighty pleas- 
ant man, and born to be popular. Ambitious, too ! and 
he is doing a smart thing for himself in marrying Mar- 
garita Corlaer. It is a direct step in the upward climb. 
O, yes, Ed ! you are ready to call me ill-natured and sus- 
picious ! I have seen what Margarita was up to, and I 
am frank in saying it. He seems supremely happy — I 
suppose 

The Dominie stifled a laugh, and knocked the ashes 
out of his pipe against the table. The afterglow of the 
sunset let her see his bent figure, and that his head bobbed 
up and down in the effort to restrain his mirth. 


A LONG LANE 


155 

There were few things he enjoyed more than stirring 
her up to the pitch of cutting criticism of the few per- 
sons she did not like or admire. 

She neither liked nor admired the elder Corlaer sister, 
and the knowledge that her palpable manoeuvres had 
landed the fish for which she had angled, was not easy 
to brook. 

“On the contrary, my love, if you will let me speak 
as candidly as you have done, he comported himself less 
like a happy lover than I should have expected. He 
touched lightly upon the circumstance that the attach- 
ment was no sudden thing, but the natural result of 
recent associations that had ripened cordial friendship 
into a warmer feeling. He accepted my congratulations 
gracefully, and passed on to speak of the second impor- 
tant communication he had intended to make to me. He 
goes abroad the middle of next month, upon a somewhat 
extended business tour of steel-works in Great Britain and 
the Continent, as Mr. Corlaer’s representative. It fits 
in right all around, you see.” 

“I se-e-e!” thoughtfully. “Does he take his bride with 
him.^” 

“No. He had thought of it, but Mr. Corlaer objected 
upon the ground that she would hamper his movements, 
and that he must often leave her alone while visiting 
places where a woman would not be comfortable.” 

“That would wind up Miss Margarita’s plans with 
eclat. I understand now what I had surmised all along — 
why Margarita has been so friendly with Sarah Van Dyck 
this summer. For a little while I was foolish enough to 
hope that Sarah had one friend in Will’s camp and that 
his sister, having espoused his cause, might bring the 
others around to favour the match. Then, I began to 
piece bits of circumstantial evidence together, and to 


A LONG LANE 


156 

form a theory which proves to be correct. Sarah — poor 
unsuspecting child ! was the clay that lived near the rose. 
Margarita is as clever in her way as her father is in his. 
Carrie is a born fool, but she has a better heart than her 
sister.” 

That her husband was of her opinion was likely, for 
he said not a word for a full minute. He seldom smoked 
more than one pipe after supper, but his perturbed mood 
demanded the solace of a second, to-night. The after- 
glow had faded entirely from the sky behind the nearest 
mountain. It stretched itself to sleep along with its 
comrades of the range ; the Dipper hung high and 
lustrous in the North; the pens'ive star they had noticed 
an hour ago, had sunk behind the comb of the church- 
roof. Katy-dids kept up their defiant rattle, aware, per- 
haps, that their time was short. Wiseacres had predicted 
frost for September twentieth — six weeks from the night 
on which the first katy-did had piped in the valley. 

Subconsciously, the de Bauns felt the influences of the 
hour, but found no soothing in them. They were sin- 
cerely attached to their afiHcted parishioners. The elder 
members of the family had done countless kindnesses to 
them in times gone by; so far as in him lay, the father 
had held up the pastor’s hands, and the boys had be- 
longed to the Sunday School until, as their mother 
phrased it indulgently — ‘‘they got too big for it.” The 
three were of very common clay, so coarse in texture and 
so friable that it would not take polish. 

That was patent to all who knew them. Even con- 
stant intercourse with a man of Norman Lang’s type 
had wrought no decided improvement in their manners 
and habits. The Dominie had referred to them as lambs 
of the flock. His wife wrote them down as goats. 

“The moral effect of exposed vice upon the community 


A LONG LANE 


157 


is always pernicious,” Mr. de Baun brought out at length. 
“The very knowledge that such abominations exist is 
demoralising. He was a judge of human nature who said 
of vice that — 

“ ‘Grown familiar with her face, 

We first endure, then pity, then embrace.’ 

“There is a contagion in the process all the way 
through. Scandal breeds scandal. Heaven only knows 
what will be the end of this !” 

His sigh was a groan, and the comforter awoke in 
the woman beside him. She put out tender arms and 
drew his head to her shoulder. 

“God always gives us light enough to see the next 
step!” she said, softly. “I read that in one of Miss War- 
ner’s books the other day. I think that it was in ‘My 
Brother’s Keeper.’ As my sister’s keeper, I shall go 
to see Mrs. Van Dyck and my poor Sarah to-morrow 
morning. That is my next step.” 


CHAPTER XV 


A nd you are going alone, ma’am?” interrogated Re- 
becca Jane, as her (nominal) mistress made herself 
ready for the drive. 

‘‘Yes, Mr. de Baun is very busy to-day. Besides, he 
called yesterday upon Mrs. Van Dyck. I am going 
there.” 

The maid had already let the lady know that she was 
conversant with the current scandal, and had small en- 
couragement from her grave face and preoccupied de- 
meanour. 

“I have heard something of the sad affair,” was her 
response when the skeleton of the tale was held up to her. 
“These things are generally exaggerated. So, it is best 
to say as little as possible about them. Mr. de Baun 
heard that Mr. Cornelius Van Dyck had gone off — it was 
believed with Mrs. Scheffelin — and went to see Mrs. Van 
Dyck as her pastor, to offer any services in his power. 
He learned very little beyond what had been told him 
already. I am going to see how Mr. Van Dyck is to-day. 
He had a bad headache yesterday, which was not to be 
wondered at.” 

The sapient mulatto had the instinct of her race and 
class in appraising the social quality of her associates. 
She had never wavered in her estimate of her mistress as 
“a born lady” during the seven years of her residence 
under the parsonage roof. She recognized her superiority 
now, and bowed to it. Neighbourhood gossip was tabooed 

158 


A LONG LANE 


159 


in the household. Mrs. de Baun passed from the dis- 
carded scandal to orders for dinner and memoranda of 
articles to be purchased at the store. From all that could 
be inferred from her behaviour, her interest in the visit 
she was to make was less lively than in sugar, coffee 
and spices. 

Cort Van Dyck emerged from the miU, and ran across 
the road to take her horse, at the gate. 

“How is your father to-day.?” was her first query. 

Her manner had not a tinge of perfunctoriness, or sig- 
nificant sympathy, and the son looked relieved. 

“Rather better, thank you!” he rejoined. “He’s up 
and about. I guess he’ll be all right soon. Dominie and 
children well.?” 

“Thank you, we are all in our usual excellent health.” 

The cordial smile that went with the words put him 
entirely at ease. 

Here, at any rate, was one acquaintance who did not 
feel that a blight had fallen upon the entire family. He 
tied the horse to the rack hurriedly. 

“Flold on, Mrs. de Baun! don’t try to go up that path 
alone! Let me lend a hand!” 

He carried out the purpose literally by putting both 
his hands under her elbows and supporting the entire 
weight of her body while she walked up the hill. Her 
laugh had a girlish ring as she yielded to the human 
propeller. The action was awkward to grotesqueness, 
but the youth meant the best that was in him, and she saw 
it. How Ed would shout when she told him of it ! 

The mother presented a shocked face at the door. 

“Cort! how dare you take such a liberty with a lady.? 
You mustn’t mind him, Mrs. de Baun! He forgets he 
ain’t a boy any more!” 

“He will always be a boy to me,” beaming gratefully 


i6o 


A LONG LANE 


upon the loutish gallant. “I am much obliged to you for 
bringing me up ! I never got up so easily before.” 

Mrs. Van Dyck looked after him as he ran back to 
the mill, her eyes dark with trouble. 

“He’s got to do double work now. I might say ‘thrib- 
hle\f Father is right down miserable, and there’s no tell- 
ing when he’ll be able to do another hand’s turn. He told 
me this morning that he couldn’t remember a single 
promise in the whole Bible — except that one text was 
running in his head the whole time, — ‘All Thy waves and 
Thy billows have gone over me !’ ” 

She repeated it on the threshold of the room in which 
her husband sat, pillowed in his big arm chair. He caught 
the text: 

“That’s the truth, ma’am!” holding the hand the vis- 
itor laid in his tremulous grasp. “I couldn’t sleep a wink 
all night for it! Not another verse could I recollect. It 
kept poundin’ in my ears until I ’most believed I could 
hear the waves and feel them a-washin’ over me.” 

“That was because you were some light-headed, father,” 
said the wife, a ring of impatience in the tone. “And 
Sarah was lay in’ fresh cloths on your head all the time. 
That was the washin’ you heard.” 

He looked the obstinacy he dared not express. His 
resolute helpmate was more than a match for him when 
both were in health. Now, beaten and broken, he durst 
not maintain his ground. 

The minister of mercy sat down by him and again took 
his hand. Hers was soft and cool. 

“It feels good!'* he muttered, the pitiful pretence of a 
smile wrinkling his cheeks. 

“/ have a text for you that must drive away the one 
that troubles you. It was made for just such times and 
for the Father’s tried and tempted children.” 


A LONG LANE 


i6i 


She bent to his ear: and recited it very slowly: 

“ "^What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.^ 

“There is another that goes with it: 'He will not suffer 
you to he tempted above that you are able to hear, but 
with the temptation will also provide a way of escape.* 
My husband tells me that ‘tempted’ there should be trans- 
lated ‘tried.’ These two texts have been a help to me 
when I was in deep waters. I felt I must let you have 
them.” 

He had closed his eyes as she began speaking, and 
now two tears slipped between the lids and rolled down 
his face. The lady wiped them with her handkerchief, as 
his daughter might have done. 

“I leave both texts with you,” she continued, soothingly. 
“Let them run in your mind as much as they^ will. They 
will be like the ‘stream’ in the hymn you are so fond of. 
Do you remember how often you give it out at prayer- 
meeting.? 

“ ‘Life, love and joy still gliding through. 

And watering our divine abode.’ ” 

Her woman’s wit had reckoned cunningly upon a rul- 
ing passion, and woman’s tact seized upon the method 
of playing upon it. Elder Van Dyck was “gifted in 
prayer,” and, in his own opinion, not destitute of a talent 
for exhortation. He responded to the appeal as an old 
war-horse to the trumpet-call. 

“Thank you!” he said in a voice that was almost nat- 
ural. “I think you were sent to me to-day !” 

His wife broke into passionate sobs. “I know she was I 
And us, that have been real hateful to you lately 1 When, 
all the time, you and the Dominie were tryin’ to coax 
young folks — our boys among them — to keep decent com- 


i 62 


A LONG LANE 


pany and find their pleasure in innocent fun! I can see 
it now when it’s too late ! Maybe this is a judgment upon 
us for holdin’ out against you!” 

“Dear Mrs. Van Dyck! The Father has no judgment 
for His children here. When He corrects us, it is for 
our good. Don’t add to your unhappiness by trying to 
find out why your grief was sent to you. But be sure 
that it cannot be for such a trifle as that you speak of. 
May I say something else that has been in my mind ever 
since I heard of your sorrow.? God loves your hoy better 
than you do! In His own good time He will make you 
understand that. Now — only believe it!” 

She wondered, when the exaltation of the moment was 
passed, how she could have said it all. She never knew 
that Mrs. Van Dyck reported to Norman Lang that she 
“talked just hke somebody inspired.” 

Rising from the bedside, she “hoped she had not tired 
Mr. Van Dyck,” and asked if she might see Sarah. 

The girl was in the kitchen assisting her aunt and 
the “bound girl” with the week’s ironing, delayed on ac- 
count of the tempest which had wrecked domestic system 
and happiness the previous day. 

Sarah raised a changed face from the work to answer 
her mother’s call. It was not only that the rose-flush 
that would have made her beautiful had her features 
been irregular, had faded into ashy pallor, but she had 
aged out of all likeness to her normal self. “Withered 
and hardened!” was her friend’s unspoken comment. 

A rush of love and pity swept her off the balance she 
had maintained in the father’s presence. She took the 
girl into her motherly embrace: 

“Dear child ! you do not look fit to be at work ! Come 
with me and rest for a little while. Good morning, 
Sauchy! You will spare Sarah for half-an-hour — won’t 


A LONG LANE 


■163 

you? She looks half-sick! Mrs. Van Dyck! may we 
go into the back parlour? We won’t disturb Mr. Van 
Dyck by going* in thereT * — ^when the hostess moved to- 
ward the sitting-room. 

Sarah had not had time for a word when she found 
herself in the cool twilight of the ‘^company” quarters. 
The shutters barred out the sunshine that might dim the 
splendours of the “real” Brussels carpet ; the muslin cur- 
tains fell in moveless folds to the floor; every black horse- 
hair chair and the sofa that matched them in sombre 
massiveness, kept its appointed place. Mrs. de Baun 
gasped for breath. 

“Do you think your mother would mind if I opened a 
window and one blind?” she asked — and before she had 
the answer had let in a streak of daylight and a whiff of 
fresh air. 

Her next movement was as impetuous. She sat down 
in the state rocking-chair near the window she had raised, 
and took Sarah upon her lap. 

“Put your head down, dear, and have your cry out!” 
she cooed, and began to rock her gently in the great 
chair. 

Modern science has put nursery rockers and rocking 
out of court, as unsanitary relics of a barbarous early 
age. Mother-love and Nature revert to barbaric custom 
when a hurt is to be healed, and weariness to be beguiled 
into slumber. And now, — as when the first mother cradled 
her man-child in her arms — the rhythmic motion and 
the lullaby have magic charm, the wide world over. 

Sarah sank into the nest of the encircling arms with 
the low wail of a spent and suffering child. 

Then, for a long while, the room was still save for 
the faint swish of the rockers upon the thick carpet and 
the sound of convulsive sobbing, growing weaker and 


A LONG LANE 


' 164 

more intermittent under the mute petting of the wise con- 
fidante. Not until the blessed tears had lessened the load 
upon her heart, did Sarah venture to speak. She sat 
upright and tried to smile: 

“I am ashamed of myself! I have no right to distress 
you I” 

A hand was laid over her mouth. Mrs. de Baun kissed 
the wet cheek. 

“What are friends made for if not to help us bear our 
troubles? You take all this hard, and it is not strange 
that you should. But, little girl, nobody whose love 
is worth having will care less for you for what your 
brother has done. He has brought disgrace upon his 
father and broken his mother’s heart. You are their 
chief comfort. It is something — it is much — to be thank- 
ful for, that you can do this as nobody else can.” 

From the first sentence she spoke she had seen that 
she had not chosen the right line of consolation. Sarah 
sat straight and stiff, her face settling into the un- 
natural mask it had worn when Mrs. de Baun had caught 
sight of it in the kitchen. She seemed to shrink and 
harden in listening. Far down in the blue eyes smoul- 
dered a gleam the lady could not interpret. 

“Please donH^ Mrs. de Baun 1 There is no use trying 
to reconcile me to what has happened. Mr. de Baun 
prayed, when he was here yesterday, that we ‘might be 
reconciled to the will of God.’ 

“If I thought He let such things happen when He 
could have hindered it, I couldn’t believe in Him ! I say 
it is cruel! cruel! to make us sinful and then punish us 
for doing wrong. It’s like men! not like the Heavenly 
Father we are taught to worship. I am not resigned! I 
don’t expect to be resigned — ever !” 

“My child ! you are out of your senses when yovi talk so 


A LONG LANE 


165 

wildly!” She tried to hypnotise the excited creature by 
sheer force of will. “You are terribly broken up by the 
shock you have had. I wish” — ^with a sudden inspira- 
tion — “that you would go home with me, and stay a few 
days ! It will do you no end of good to have a complete 
change of scene.” 

The girl twisted her hands nervously, with a short, 
bitter laugh. 

“I don’t suppose” — in a tone the listener would not 
have recognised had she not been looking at her — “there 
is another house in Kinapeg where I would be welcome 
now. The sooner I get used to the idea the better.” 

She uttered it deliberately, like one stating a propo- 
sition that had no personal bearing upon the speaker. 
The child was hard-hit, and incapable of seeing the truth. 

“You are wrong there, my pet! Your true friends 
will rally around you to try and comfort you. I do not 
know another girl who is so much belovM. Why, Mrs. 
Walker was telling me yesterday how, when hardly any- 
body would speak to her son after he came home last 
spring, you stopped him on the road, before the Post 
Office, and said you were glad to see him back and in- 
quired after his mother. And that, while he was away, 
you looked in upon her almost every week, to see if there 
were anything you could do for her. And that you 
brought food and clothing for her — ‘as good as new.’ A 
week at the Parsonage will put the world in a different 
light to you. I shall not be content until we have you. 
I must speak to your mother about it.” 

""Please don’t, Mrs. de Baun ! for I shall not go. People 
will talk, and you will be sorry some day that you asked 
me. But I don’t think God ever made a better woman. 
If I ever pray again, I will beg Him constantly never 
to let trouble go near youP 


i66 


A LONG LANE 


“Sis takes It awful hard!” was Cort’s comment upon 
the visitor’s summary of her call. “You see she’s never 
had any troulbe before, and she don’t know what to do 
about it. ’Seems as if It had set her against the whole 
world.” 

He had watched Mrs. de Baun’s exit from the 
house, and had her carriage ready when she got to 
the gate. 

Two wagons and a carriage drove over the bridge 
while he lingered to talk to her, and she detected, with 
a pang at her heart, his evident gratification that they 
should be seen upon friendly terms. It revealed what 
was already the attitude of the disgraced family toward 
a critical world. Out of the fulness of her compassionate 
generosity, she purposely prolonged the interview. 

“You must try to persuade her to come to me for 
two or three days,” she replied, the heart-ache returning 
at sight of the pleasure turning the sun-burned face to 
a deeper red. “Bring her over, yourself. We are always 
glad to see any of you. And let me beg you not to seem 
to notice Sarah’s depression. Only be very nice to her, 
and try to make her forget her trouble.” 

The brother leaned over the wheel confidentially. 

“I heard just now that Will Corlaer is laid up with 
fever out in California, or some other place out West. 
Pie ain’t dangerous, they say, but he has a nasty tech of 
fever, and ain’t likely to be home so soon as was ex- 
pected.” 

If he had expected her to betray appreciation of the 
connection the information might have with the subject 
of their conversation, he was mistaken. Will’s ally was 
true to her trust. 

“Indeed ! I am sorry to hear it. Mr. de Baun will go 
to see Mr. Corlaer and learn particulars. Good-bye! 


A LONG LANE 167 

I am very much obliged to you for taking care of my 
horse — and of me !” 

The arch brightness was gone from her face as she 
diverged from the direct route home into the turnpike 
running by the Corlaer place. She was impatient to 
get authentic tidings from California. 


CHAPTER XVI 


B y the time Mrs. de Baun had driven half-way up the 
curving sweep of the road leading from one of the 
two gates opening upon the Corlaer grounds, her anxi- 
ety for the heir-apparent of the house was measurably 
abated. 

For Margarita’s strong mezzo-soprano was strenuously 
demanding — 

“What are the wild waves saying.?” 

of a peripatetic audience of three market-men with 
wagons loaded with “produce,” wending their sluggish 
way down the turnpike, and six dirty children impaling 
their chins upon the picket-fence. A sick, reminiscent 
thrill ran through the new arrival in recognising the 
duet between soprano and tenor that had received rap- 
turous encores at the Christmas concert. 

Sarah Van Dyck had looked her very prettiest that 
night, and Norman Lang did not conceal his pride in 
his pupil. The contrast of the mental picture with the 
ghastly visage she had seen, not half-an-hour ago, was 
not sadder than the comparison between the misery of 
one household with the bright prosperity of the other. 

As she checked her horse at the front entrance, Carrie 
tripped swiftly from the far end of the vine-curtained 
veranda, followed closely by a young man who ran down 
the steps to assist the lady in alighting. 

168 


A LONG LANE 169 

“My friend, Mr. Adrain, Mrs. de Baun !” uttered Car- 
rie, in due formality. 

The two shook hands, and Mrs. de Baun recalled in- 
stantly the rumour that Carrie had “caught a new beau 
at Saratoga.” 

“I had the pleasure of knowing Mr. de Baun in New 
Brunswick,” he said, affably. “I was a freshman in col- 
lege when he was a senior in the Seminary. He would 
hardly recollect me, but he may not have forgotten my 
father, Mr. Goyn Adrain, who has been a resident of 
New Brunswick all his life.” 

He ran it off with glib civility, and Carrie radiated 
with delight: 

“Dear Mrs. de Baun! Mother will be so sorry she 
is not at home! She went down to town this morning 
for a day’s shopping. But Margarita will be delighted 
to see you. I guess your call is more for her than for 
anybody else.?” 

The arch interrogation reminded the visitor that con- 
gratulatory calls were in order. She moved toward the 
hospitably-wide door. 

Carrie danced before her to the drawing-room: 

“Rita ! Ritar ^ — drowning the strenuous declaration — 
“I hear no singing!” with — “Well! we can’t hear any- 
thing else! Here’s Mrs. de Baun, come to congratulate 
you. I told you she’d be one of the first to do it.” 

Margarita met the guest joyously: 

“How sweet and dear in you!” she ejaculated, kissing 
her twice, and squeezing her hands until the knuckles 
rubbed together. “Norman was saying last night how 
he values your friendship, and how cordial Mr. de Baun 
was to him yesterday afternoon. He thinks all the world 
of you both !” 

“Not quite ‘all!’” the minister’s wife contrived to ar- 


A LONG LANE 


170 

ticulate with what was not a bad counterfeit of sin- 
cerity. “I congratulate you, and hope you will be very 
happy.” 

Quitting the slippery footing abruptlj^, she rushed on: 

“I heard a few minutes ago of Will’s illness, and hur- 
ried over to hear how he is now. When have you heard 
from him.? Where is he.? Is he really ill.?” 

Margarita laughed patronisingly : ‘‘Will was always 
your favourite of us all! Don’t make yourself miserable 
over him ! He had something like ship-fever after he 
got to California, and didn’t shake it off as easily as he 
would have done if there had been decent doctors and 
decent houses out there. But he pulled through amaz- 
ingly well in the long run. Norman says the climate 
where he is — high ground somewhere, but near enough 
to the coast to get the benefit of the sea-air — would 
almost bring the dead to life. When Will wrote last he 
was quite well again, although, of course, not as strong 
as he was before his illness. So he was going a little 
further up among the mountains, or somewhere. He has 
attended to the business that took him out. Norman says 
he has done better than might have been expected. It 
was about a contract for railroad iron, or something of 
that sort. I don’t bother my brains with business-de- 
tails. I told Norman, when he asked me to marry him, 
that he needn’t expect me to be a business-partner. He 
says that would be the last thing he would want.” 

The simper and blush that went with the words were 
lost upon the auditor. Her manner was still grave, if 
less anxious: 

“Is there any one to take care of him in camp.? For 
I suppose that is where he is.?” 

“I think so 1” carelessly. “I really haven’t asked many 
questions. As you may imagine” — simper and blush in 


A LONG LANE 


171 

full play — “I have had more important things to think 
of. Weren’t you surprised to hear of 

“Of your engagement — do you mean?” Had Marga- 
rita been less absorbed in her selfish bliss, she must have 
been irked by the dry tone. “I cannot say that I was ! 
Had it happened last winter, we might have been taken 
by surprise. Those of us who have eyes have had our 
suspicions lately. It is a great relief to get such cheering 
accounts of your brother. Does he give you any idea of 
when we may expect him?” 

“0-h-h! not for a month or six weeks, I should say. 
Maybe longer. It’s an awfully tedious voyage, Norman 
says. And he is going on a longer, you know? I just 
try not to let my mind brood upon it. Indeed, Norman 
has made me promise not to! He says it will be hard 
enough for him to be absent three months, without having 
to think all the time how I am suffering at home. And 
you have seen what excited suspicion, you say? We 
thought we had thrown dust so cleverly into people’s 
eyes that we would spring a big surprise upon the whole 
community. Even Father was not prepared for it. Nor- 
man went to him, right away, and told him all about it. 
Norman said he knew I was not making what might be 
called a brilliant match. And Father told him he was 
quite satisfied with my choice. He couldn’t have said 
anything else. He appreciates Norman’s talents and 
ability. He is sending him upon a confidential business 
trip, as a proof of his faith in him. Norman says that, 
next year, if all goes well, he will take me abroad with 
him. On a wedding tour, you understand?” 

Mrs. de Baun nodded. She was thankful for the volu- 
bility that made verbal response difficult. 

“Mother has always liked Norman, and she is natu- 
rally pleased. Carrie is enraptured! And while we are 


172 


A LONG LANE 


talking confidentially, let me say that you may prepare 
yourself for another surprise. I think you, and all of us, 
will be glad to have the child well-settled. As for Will — 
he wouldn’t count for much if he were here, but I am 
not afraid lest he might raise objections. Everybody 
likes Norman. And, as I was saying to him this morning 
— he came over to breakfast. Everything will be so up- 
side down at the Van Dycks’ — he thought it would be 
pleasanter all around for him not to be there. It was 
bad enough that he should be mixed up in it in any way — 
going down to the bank, and all that. But, as I was 
saying — we had a talk after breakfast and we agreed 
there seems to be a Providence in Will’s being away just 
now. He is such a headstrong fellow that he would be 
as likely as not to hold on to his foolish fancy for Sarah, 
and make no end of trouble. Father gets black in the 
face when any allusion is made to it. I dropped a word 
or two on the subject last night after Norman went home, 
and you should have seen what a rage he flew into! 
Mother warned Carrie and me not to allude to it again. 
She says he didn’t sleep last night, for thinking of it. 
He was ahvays bitterly opposed to it, you know. When 
I heard how he went on about it I felt I couldn’t be too 
thankful my choice had been so wise. As for Carrie, she 
turned pale as death, listening to him — ^poor child! 

‘‘Norman has been extremely kind to that family. I 
wonder at his being willing to stay there so long. It 
could never have been at all congenial to him. Sarah is 
the best of them. He has been a home-missionary to 
them all, but especially to her. She was never intellectual, 
but she has rather refined tastes and a decided taste 
for music. He directed her reading and developed her 
talent for music, and tried, as tactfully as he could, to 
train her in other ways. I have been in his confidence 


A LONG LANE 


173 


this long while, and, while I didn’t want her to marry 
my brother, I was wilhng to do all I could to elevate 
and refine her.” 

The insufferable patronage, blatant in speech and man- 
ner, drove Mrs. de Baun to protest: 

“I am very fond of Sarah Van Dyck. She is one of 
the loveliest girls I know. I am never ashamed to in- 
troduce her to my friends, when they visit me. She re- 
minds me of a pearl of price, — the fairer for her sur- 
roundings. She would make a good wife for any man. 
The difficulty would be to find one worthy of her. But 
I must be going ! Please tell your mother how sorry I am 
to miss seeing her, and how happy the news of Will’s im- 
provement in health makes Mr. de Baun and myself.” 

They were on their feet, Margarita a-quiver with 
meaning smiles, and the other undisguisedly impatient of 
delay. 

^‘And — no message for anybody else.? He will be 
disappointed if you do not leave love and congratulations 
for him.” 

leave you to imagine all I ought to say, and to pass 
it on to Iiim,” was the desperate subterfuge by which 
the worried woman escaped. “You are better at making 
graceful speeches than I.” 

She had her acrid comment when the staid roadster 
was the solitary auditor: 

“And she tried to ‘refine and elevate’ my poor Sarah! 
Heaven grant me patience!” 

In the safe seclusion of her parsonage chamber she 
cried long and stormily. Her husband was shut up in 
his study with his Sunday sermon. From her window 
she could see the children playing in the back-yard under 
the eye of Rebecca Jane’s daughter, who sat under a 
tree with her sewing. It was a scene of quiet home-life 


174 


A LONG LANE 


that went to her heart, when she reviewed the morning’s 
visits. What right had she to be exempt from tribula- 
tion, when waters of a full cup were dealt out to others 
as deserving of happiness as she? While she revolved 
the question in her mind, a bold thought sprang into 
life. She was as sure, as if it had been affirmed by W^ill 
Corlaer’s sister, that nobody would tell him of the dis- 
aster that had befallen the family at the mill-farm. She 
had had a short letter written on the steamer and sent 
back by the pilot. In this Will had given her his San 
Francisco address, and to that she had dispatched a kind, 
sisterly reply, three weeks back. He was not in San Fran- 
cisco now, according to Margarita’s story, but somewhere 
in the mountains. Yet — flight returning to the wet eyes 
and hope to the heavy heart — surely a letter sent to the 
one large city on the coast would be forwarded or kept 
for him ! It was evidently a Paste restante^ or she would 
have had another address. It would be the policy of the 
Corlaers to keep the son and brother in ignorance of the 
scandal, under the pretext of sparing him needless pain. 
Fie had loved Sarah Van Dyck the more stubbornly for 
the opposition he had met with from his parents. 

‘‘I shall never give her up until one of us dies, or she 
marries another man!” he had written in the steamer- 
letter to the mistress of the Manse. He was a common- 
place fellow in many — in most — respects. He had a spice 
of chivalry in his make-up which would keep him from 
throwing over the girl he loved because the world turned 
against her. 

The outcome of fifteen minutes’ deliberation was the 
following letter: 

‘‘My dear Will: I am glad to hear that your indis- 
position was less serious than we had at first feared, and 


A LONG LANE 


17; 


that you are recovering rapidly under the influence of 
change of air and scene. May the blessM work go on 
until you are fully restored to health! 

“I am taking the risk of sending this to San Fran- 
cisco because something has happened here which I think 
you ought to hear from one w^ho will tell you the facts 
in the case without prejudice. 

‘‘Cornelius Van Dyck eloped last week with Mrs. Schef- 
felin, taking a large sum of his father’s money with him. 
The family are in the deepest distress, as you may imag- 
ine. Mr. Van Dyck was so much overcome by the shock 
that we feared, for a time, serious consequences. I found 
him much better to-day. I cannot go into particulars. 
But you will want to know how the daughter bears the 
blow. She is an angel of mercy to her father, and very 
brave. I wish I could add that she is resigned to the 
affliction. She seems to feel it more keenly than any of 
the rest. I am trying to persuade her to pay us a visit 
of a few days.. It may be that our care and the love she 
knows we have for her may comfort her somewhat. 

“I take it for granted that you have been informed 
of Margarita’s engagement to Mr. Lang.? I saw her to- 
day for a short time. Mr. Lang is a most estimable 
young man, and I hope they will have all the happiness 
in life they anticipate. 

“Mr. de Baun would join me in affectionate regards 
if he knew I am writing. 

“To avoid Post Office gossip, I shall send this letter 
under cover to my sister in New York, and let her mail 
it there. Faithfully your friend, 

“Margaret de Baun. 

“P. S. Upon reading this over, I fear you may think 
it cold and unsympathetic. I must assure you, dear boy. 


A LONG LANE 


176 

that my heart aches to its depths for you both. May 
God help and guide you under the pain I know the news 
will cause you!” 

The epistle, thus amended, went off to her city-sister 
that night, and the writer kept her own counsel. There 
are some things husbands are the happier for not know- 
ing, even when their consorts emulate Solomon’s Perfect 
Woman in virtue and discretion. 


CHAPTER XVII 


I N ‘‘A History of New York, by Diedrich Knicker- 
bocker,” we read : 

‘‘The houses of the higher classes were generally con- 
structed of wood, excepting the gable end, which was of 
small black-and-white Dutch bricks, and always faced on 
the street, as our ancestors, like their descendants, were 
very much given to outward show, and were noted for 
putting the best leg foremost.” 

To this day, the traveller through the sections of the 
plucky little commonwealth adjoining the bigger and 
wealthier, smiles in recognising the Dutch element in a 
dozen different manifestations. At least seven out of ten 
old houses scattered among the hills, set close to highways 
laid out by the (more or less) “rude forefathers of the 
hamlet,” and clustering about weather-beaten spires, 
stand with gables to the road. Perhaps six per cent, of 
them are framed and clapboarded with wood, and the ends 
enclosing the chimneys are of blackened bricks, or hewn 
stone roughly cemented together. 

The Jersey Hollander carried the “best leg foremost” 
style of architecture into humble homes, no less than into 
“the houses of the higher classes.” The Guard House 
was not a vain show of gentility, being of solid stone on 
all four sides. The smaller house, fifty feet to the rear 
of it, could never have had a remote pretension to any 
but the lowly class. It had but three rooms in all — one 
of fair size on the first floor, served the occupants as 

177 


A LONG LANE 


178 

dining-room and kitchen ; the smaller as bed-chamber. A 
ladder-like stairway gave access from the larger room to 
a ceiled loft overhead. The gable next the turnpike was 
of stones of irregular sizes. The clapboarded gable was 
not visible from the post-road. 

The house faced the creek — “river” by courtesy, and 
not a misnomer after spring and autumn freshets, — 
tumbling under the bridge beyond the Corlaer Place to 
join a sister-stream half a mile further down the valley. 

“The Widow Walker” had lived in the little old house 
above the creek ever since her only son was six years old. 
She was the daughter of the village carpenter, a bright, 
energetic girl who was made much of in Sunday- and in 
day-school. At the age of twelve she became the maid 
and companion of Miss Katrina Corlaer, a confirmed in- 
valid who lived in the wing of her brother’s house for 
many years. The cripple grew very fond of Patsey Ro- 
meyn, and to her gentle training the girl owed qualities 
and manners that raised her above the rank and file of 
those who would naturally have been her intimates. She 
read aloud to Miss Katrina by the hour, and assimilated 
unconsciously much of what she read. She learned all 
manner of fine needlework, and dainty ways of performing 
common duties of which many of her superiors in social 
position remained forever ignorant. 

She was twenty when her benefactress died, and Patsey 
married a Millville mechanic who had courted her assidu- 
ously for two years. She was thirty-five when she re- 
turned to Kinapeg. Her husband had lingered out six 
years of helplessness and pain, as the result of a fall from 
the roof of a building he was “tinning.” He had no 
resource but to pull steadily upon his slender savings 
for the daily bread of himself and family until the last 
dollar was gone. Then he mortgaged, up to the chimney- 


A LONG LANE 


179 


top, the house he had hoped to make a permanent home, 
and died, more of a broken heart than a broken spine. 
Two children had preceded him to the Kinapeg cemetery 
in which Patsey’s father owned a lot. He lay in a corner 
of it now, and his wife beside him. 

But for her Dick, Patsey had not a near relative in 
this world when, having sold her house and most of 
her furniture and barely paid the mortgage with the 
proceeds of the sale, she followed the advice of Wilhelmus 
Corlaer, her life-long friend, and brought the scanty rem- 
nants of her humble fortunes to her birthplace. Living 
was cheap there by comparison with Millville prices, and 
there was no healthier site in the world than the hill-girt 
valley. Dick was a delicate child, and he was her earthly 
all. We have seen that the Guard House belonged to 
Timothy O. Brouwer, and the deed-of-sale took in the 
property running down to the creek. Patsey may have 
suspected, but she was never told, that she might have 
thanked Mr. Corlaer, instead of his richer neighbour, for 
the offer of the stone-gabled cottage, rent-free, as long 
as she chose to live in it. Timothy O. informed her, in 
his magniloquent manner, that she had “better friends in 
Kinapeg than anywhere else, and he was going to prove 
it by putting a weather-tight roof over her head until 
the little rascal over there” — shaking his great head at 
her boy — “was able to buy her a better.” 

Mr. Corlaer made the squalid shell of a dwelling com- 
fortable by repairing walls and roof, and his wife eked 
out the forlorn array of household goods from her own 
bountiful store. Mr. Corlaer had insisted upon paying 
the expenses of little Katrina’s funeral, “because she was 
his sister’s namesake,” and had a different, but as cogent 
a reason for defraying the heavier cost of poor Walker’s 
obsequies. 


i8o 


A LONG LANE 


All the neighbours were kind to the lonely woman, in 
their way. In every household the washing was done at 
home, but Patsey soon earned a reputation for clear- 
starching and other fine laundry-work, and had her hands 
full all summer long, doing up best muslin frocks and lace- 
trimmed ‘‘spencers.’’ The Brouwer sisters and aunts 
were lavish in orders, and semi-annual house-cleanings 
were a fruitful source of income. 

She toiled and contrived to feed and clothe her boy 
and herself, thankful that, at the end of each year, she 
could see that she had made both ends meet, and laid 
aside a little against a rainy day. She had abundance 
of the finest brand of independence. She accepted neigh- 
bourly offices when they took the form of provisions, 
firewood and coal. It was the fashion of the country. 
She had heard Mrs. de Baun tell a city-friend that not 
a day had passed of their eight years’ residence in the 
Valley without bringing to the Parsonage tokens of good- 
will and affection in the shape of substantial provisions 
for her larder, or delicacy for the table. Patsey had, 
herself, carried to the Dominie’s family many a basket 
of wild berries, a dozen eggs, or a chicken of her own 
raising; a pan of gingerbread or loaf of the com bread 
for which she was famous. There was no loss of self- 
respect in the acceptance of gifts of this kind. 

Dick throve like a tree of the Lord’s own planting. 
This was his mother’s simile. And that he “grew in 
favour both with God and man.” He had inherited his 
mother’s active mind and manual deftness, carrying off 
more school-prizes than any other pupil in his classes, 
shining in exhibitions, and turning an occasional honest 
penny by assisting farmers in busy seasons and lending 
a hand on holidays and Saturdays in the “store.” 

At eighteen, he was offered a petty clerkship in the 


A LONG LANE 


i8i 


latter, the proprietor having taken a fancy to the “smart” 
lad. Patsey strained several points to dress him suit- 
ably for his exalted position. He would soon be sup- 
porting himself, and what use had she for money for her- 
self so long as she had her head and hands? Her bov 
must not be ashamed of his clothes in the presence of 
customers and loungers. 

Elbert Schenck, his employer, loved his ease too well 
to burden himself with tasks he could have performed by 
paid proxy. It was not generally known that he had 
shunted much of the work devolving upon him as post- 
master, off upon his young assistant until the bolt from 
the blue startled the community, and crushed Patsey 
Walker’s air-castles into dust. 

That season is still spoken of in the Valley as the 
“cruel-hard winter of 185 — .” 

Half of the factories in Millville shut down for want 
of work; Mr. Corlaer made no secret of the truth that 
he was losing money daily by running his foundry and 
forges on half-time. The cold was intense; storms were 
frequent, and severe. 

Early in December, Patsey Walker had a dangerous 
illness. She was bed-ridden for two months, and was 
just feebly creeping around the room, when Dick made 
his “mistake.” It was pleaded at the trial (by a lawyer 
hired by Mr. Corlaer) that the young fellow was mad 
with distress and anxiety on account of his mother’s con- 
dition; that he thought her life might depend upon the 
purchase of comforts requisite for her recovery; that he 
had always been a dutiful and loving son, and borne a 
spotless reputation in the neighbourhood. With much 
more to the same effect which, undoubtedly, availed to 
shorten the term of imprisonment. 

Patsey confided to her pastor that she had not known 


i 82 


A LONG LANE 


sorrow that deserved the name until she heard what her 
boy’s fate was to be. She wondered if the Heavenly 
Father, to whom she clung as a drowning man to a float- 
ing mast, ever really knew how she managed to live 
through that awful twelvemonth. She was sure of one 
thing, and wondered exceedingly thereat — to wit, that 
the shock killed the roots of the disease which had laid 
her low. ‘‘But I think it was the devil who told me — 
‘Arise and walk !’ ” — she said to Mrs. de Baun months 
later, with the touch of whimsical humour that survived 
the wreck of hope and pride. “I just felt that I must 
fight somebody or something, and I’d begin with what 
was the cause of it all. If it hadn’t been for that spell 
of sickness, the awful temptation wouldn’t have been 
sent to my darling. So I said, ‘I will down that, first 
of all!’ ” 

In a month she was at work — years older than when 
she lay down on the night of her seizure, and less sprightly 
in manner and speech, but she was her resolute, uncon- 
quered self, with a goal in view which she never lost 
sight of in a waking moment. She would get ready for 
Dick’s home-coming and stand at his side to help live 
down this monstrous wrong done in the name of Law and 
Humanity. The loyalty of her lifelong friends and the 
visits erf the minister’s wife, Sarah Van Dyck and other 
Christ-like souls saved her from misanthropy. But the 
arrow need not be poisoned in order to leave a festering 
sore. 

She would not have believed, a half-year back, that she 
could ever be so nearly care-free as on the November 
evening when she sat down with her son to the supper 
she had kept hot for him against his belated return 
from the Works. 

“You see, Mr. Corlaer was not at home to-day, and 


A LONG LANE 


183 

somehow, a fellow has an idea that he is more responsible 
for what he does then, than if the boss were there,” 
said Dick, when the first dozen mouthfuls had meas- 
urably appeased his appetite. “He laid out a lot of 
letters to copy. I could have left some until to-mor- 
row, but I thought I’d sleep better if I got them all 
done.” 

“That’s right!” The assent was hearty. “It’s lucky 
you paid so much attention to your handwriting when 
you were at school. He told me last Sunday how well 
you were doin’. He knew he couldn’t please me more 
than by sayin’ that. He has the name of bein’ a hard 
man with them that don’t know him. I’ve known Wil- 
helmus Corlaer nine-and-thirty years, and never had a 
sharp word from him. And in the day of trouble — 
But there! There’s no use in me beginnin’ to talk about 
that! Have some more 1” She put a second egg and 
slice of ham upon his plate. “And you’ll never taste 
better buttermilk-pop than that, if you live to be a hun- 
dred !” 

Her chief joy in her renewed life was to see him con- 
tented and normal. The “jail-bird look” we are ready 
to detect, had passed from him as ugly mist from glass. 
He had clear blue eyes, and he looked his fellows directly 
in the face when spoken to ; walked among men with head 
erect and broad shoulders squared. He had what hun- 
dreds of other “jail-birds” have gone to the devil be- 
cause no man gave it unto them — a fair chance to re- 
trieve the first misstep. * Mr. Corlaer had braved the 
disapproval of friend and neighbour by taking the young 
man into his office a month before. His “son’s absence 
left him shorthanded,” he remarked briefly, when a critic, 
bolder than the rest, intimated that it was a hazardous 
thing to place trust in one “with a record.” 


A LONG LANE 


: i 84 

‘‘The boy is trying to keep straight^ and I mean to 
help him. He has honest blood in him. I believe it will 
work out right in the long run.” 

The room in which mother and son sat at supper was 
plainly furnished, but scrupulously neat in every appoint- 
ment. Patsey clung to the open fireplace when every 
other housewife in the village had her cook-stove. She 
had “learned to cook over the coals,” she persisted, “and 
was too old to take to new tricks.” Her Dutch oven, 
skillet, frying-pan, big and little kettles, were black and 
bright; her pewter dishes and crockery were cared for 
as faithfully as if she had anticipated the craze for native 
antiques which would attack her countrywomen a quar- 
ter-century later. 

Dick had made the broad low settee of red cedar which 
stood against the wall, and two of the chairs his mother 
had cushioned and draped with Turkey-red. A Boston 
rocker was her accustomed seat. Dick had his father’s 
elbow-chair at the corner of the hearth. Tears blinded 
the mother, sometimes, as he smoked his after-dinner pipe, 
lolling back with his legs crossed — ‘Tor all the world like 
Kichard Walker used to do when the day’s work was 
done!” “And to think” — this to herself — “that, for all 
those dreadful months, I never dared hope to see him 
there again, and worthy to sit in his father’s place! 
‘Bless the Lord, O, my soul! and forget not all His bene- 
fits !’ ” 

Dick stooped to stir the fire vigorously while she . was 
washing and clearing away the supper-dishes. 

“Who’d have thought of having a roaring big fire like 
this the twenty-eighth of November! And listen to the 
wind! You might think it was Christmas. By Jingo! 
it makes a fellow feel good all through to have a home 
like this — and” — with the shyness common to his class 


A LONG LANE 185 

when finer feelings crave expression — ‘‘a mother like 
mine !” 

“It’s real nice to hear you say it, my boy !” 

The break in her voice, and the shining eyes said a 
hundredfold more than the words. Was there a happier 
woman in the length and breadth of the Jerseys, that 
blustering night, than she.? 

Dick stood with his back to her, apparently staring 
into the fire, and the task of washing-up and clearing-off 
went forward briskly. The wind howled and whistled and 
cried in the naked trees of the grove, and the bawling 
creek carried on the theme. Abrupt gusts gurgled 
in the chimney-throat and blew the coals into redder 
flashes. It was truly a night to awaken thankfulness 
in the hearts of the safely and snugly housed, and to 
curse the homeless with paroxysms of nostalgic nausea. 

“By Jingo!” ejaculated Dick, again. “I’d better fill 
your wood-box, if this sort of thing is going to keep up. 
If the wind should go down, we’ll have a black frost be- 
fore morning!” 

He buttoned his coat over his chest, pulled his cap 
far down over his ears, and went off. The door did 
not latch tightly after him, and a fiercer blast blew 
it open and brought a whirl of dead leaves into the room. 
Patsey caught the door and held it for a moment to peer 
into the outer darkness. The stars were out, and steely 
bright. Between her and them the trees waved and 
brandished bare black arms. She slammed the door hard 
into place, and shuddered aloud. 

“Goodness gracious me ! It’s a young hurricane !” 

It may have been five minutes before she heard Dick’s 
stumbling step outside. Before she could reach the door 
to unlatch it, he thumped heavily against it — a queer 
muffled thud that shook it from top to bottom. 


i86 


A LONG LANE 


“In the name of common sense!” she began. 

The exclamation was a shriek as her son staggered in, 
carrying the figure of a woman in his arms. 

Without speaking, he bore his burden to the settee 
and laid it down very gently. 

A brown cloak enveloped the moveless form and a hood 
had fallen quite over the face, but Patsey recognised 
her at a glance. 

“Dick Walker! IPs never Sarah Van Dyck! Is she 

deadr 

Dick’s horror and distress were a thousand removes 
from flippancy, yet he answered in the slang of the 
period : 

“Well! it ain’t anybody else! And if she’s dead, I’ve 
killed her!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


T he inestimable blessing of The Trained Nurse was 
still in the womb of futurity, but Patsey Walker 
was born to the business, and had had an apprenticeship 
in the service of her first mistress. 

Bidding her son “Hold your tongue, and pull off her 
shoes !” she untied and removed the smothering hood, un- 
buttoned the cloak and opened the girl’s dress at the 
throat. A gasp and a groan answered her ministrations. 
Then Sarah lay again motionless, and seemingly breath- 
less. 

“A dead faint!” pronounced Patsey. “Rub her feet, 
while I get the hartshorn!” 

She brought a palm-leaf fan with the bottle of am- 
monia, and showed her assistant how to draw the air 
over the prostrate form in long, slow currents. Then she 
fell to her part of the work so intelligently that signs 
of resuscitation were speedily visible. Sarah stirred, 
caught a few convulsive breaths and opened her eyes upon 
the kind face above her. 

“Mrs. Walker ! Then — I must be alive!” she whispered, 
agonisedly. 

One could not misread the passion of regret. 

She had thought herself dead. It was misery to be 
alive. 

“Yes, my lamb! Thank God you are alive, and going 
to live. It would have broken more hearts than one if 
you had gone.” 


187 


i88 


A LONG LANE 


She was chafing the cold hands, as if to impart the 
warmth of her own pulses to them. 

“You’re cornin’ ’round finely now, honey! No! don’t 
try to talk! Just lie still until you are stronger.” She 
left her patient for a minute, and was back again with 
a glass. Slipping her arm under Sarah’s head, she held 
it to her lips. “O, I know you don’t think you can swal- 
low it, but 3mu can ! There ! I told you so ! The colour 
is cornin’ back. You’ll be right as a trivet soon.” She 
stood up, the emptied wine-glass in her hand, and watched 
the white face with a smile of tender encouragement. “It 
ought to do you good! It’s wine Mrs. Corlaer sent me 
the winter I was sick. I put it away to keep it until 
somebody that was good enough to drink it happened 
along. I’m glad it’s you, dearie!” 

Sarah’s eyes opened wide — the pale lips writhed in a 
bitter smile : ^^She wouldn’t be !” she said, faintly. 

“There’s where you’re mistaken, child!” retorted Pat- 
sey, bravely. Her task now was to bring the girl around 
at the cost of no matter how many lies. “She’s got a 
soft spot in her heart for you. I don’t know anybody 
that hasn’t.” 

Her fingers wei^ upon the girl’s wrist. She patted it 
in letting it go. 

“It’s gettin’ stronger every second. Now, dear, Dick 
will run around to your house and let them know you 
are safe with me. They’ll be uneasy when you don’t 
come home.” 

“No! no! NO.'” In the energy of the denial she raised 
herself to a sitting posture, then fell back, exhausted. 

Patsey had to stoop to catch the words uttered in 
a whisper, yet energetically. “They think I’m at the 
Parsonage to-night. I told them — I was goino* — there. 
To stay all night!” 


A LONG LANE 189 

“And you haven’t been there?” The girl ought not to 
talk, but some things she must know. 

“No! I — didn’t — ^mean to go. I told — a — lie! One 
more — or less — don’t matter!” 

The inscrutable smile twisted her mouth again. She 
turned her face to the back of the settee with a petulant 
gesture. 

“That’s all right! You shan’t be bothered to answer 
any more questions. You are to stay here all night. It’s 
freezin’ cold, and I’ve as comfortable a bed as any in 
the country. You will sleep in that, and I’ll sleep in here 
on the settee. I always do when we have company. And 
’tisn’t often we have such company as we’ve got to-night — 
hey, Dick?” 

“That’s a fact — certain sure!” He came nobly up to 
her expectations. 

But he had an idea of his own and it must out. 

“I say, Momsie — ” shifting his bulk from one foot to 
the other. “Suppose some of them might happen to say 
something to the Dominie or Mrs. de Baun about her 
having spent the night at the Parsonage — what then?” 

The possibility seemed to terrify the guest. She turned 
frightened eyes from mother to son; her hands quivered 
painfully. 

Patsey clapped her boy’s shoulder. 

“Smart fellow! This is our secret, and nobody else’s. 
But it’s as well to take no chances. Now, sonny, you go 
to the Parsonage and see the Dominie and his wife — 
both of them! mind you! and say that Miss Sarah was 
cornin’ to stay all night there, but had a kind of faint 
turn when she got here, and, seein’ the night is so awful 
cold, I wouldn’t let her go any further. Then — make 
sure Rebecca Jane isn’t cruisin’ anywhere in the offin’ ” — 
(a borrowed phrase of which she was innocently vain) — 


190 


A LONG LANE 


‘‘and ask them, please, never to mention that she didn’t 
go to them, if any of the family should happen to speak 
of her spendin’ the night at the Parsonage — as she ex- 
pected to do,""' emphasising every syllable by a tap upon 
his coat-sleeve. “She don’t want to make her father un- 
easy, and she’ll be all right in the mornin’. If that isn’t 
just the straight truth, it’s as near to it as it’s safe to 
go. Tellin’ all the truth is sometimes the wickedest thing 
a body can do, and a lie that’s meant to do somebody a 
good turn gets bleached in the tellin’ — to my way of 
thinkin’. Now, run along, boy! You’ve got your lesson. 
Stick to it!” 

A wan smile flitted across Sarah’s face as the door 
closed after the messenger. 

“You are too kind to me!” she faltered, raising her 
hand to the cheek of her hostess, as she knelt on the floor 
beside her to arrange the cushions under her head and 
tuck the shawl over her feet. ^ “I ought not to let you do 
so much.” 

“Don’t say a word, honey! If you belonged to me, 
I couldn’t think more of you. But, tell me! have you 
had never a mouthful of supper.? Where have you been 
all the time.? What happened to you? Did you fall?” 

Slow tears filled Sarah’s eyes. “I couldn’t eat a mouth- 
ful if I had it. I was just wandering around — wishing 
1 was deadr* 

Patsey did not start visibly at the unexpected outburst, 
but her heart stood still. 

“There ! there ! don’t try to talk until you’re stronger ! 
I’ll put you in my bed while Dick is out, and lay a bottle 
of hot water to your feet and make you drink a cup of 
hot milk. That’s the best thing I know of to make you 
sleep sound, when you’re tired and nervous. And in 
the mornin’ you can slip down to the Parsonage if you 


A LONG LANE 


191 

like. Maybe Hwould be better to be able to say you’ve 
been there. Dick’s a close-mouthed fellow. He won’t give 
you away to the Dominie, or anybody else. You see, 
nothing could be safer and straighter. Lie still while I 
get your bed ready!” 

Sarah did not observe that the door of the inner room 
stood wide open while the clean sheets were spread upon 
the bed, and extra covers piled over them. Patsey con- 
fessed to her close-mouthed son afterward that she 
‘‘wouldn’t have been surprised to find the bird flown if 
she hadn’t kept an eye upon her all the time. If she’d 
run away once, there was no tellin’ when she might be 
taken that way again.” 

Pier charge gave her no more trouble, submitting with 
the docihty of a child to be undressed, and to have one 
of Patsey’s nightgowns put upon her and Patsey’s finest 
nightcap tied over her hair when Patsey had combed it 
and rolled it into a loose knot. She got into bed meekly 
and dumbly, and the hot-water bottle was adjusted to her 
ice-cold feet. But when the nurse smoothed the covers 
snugly about her shoulders and bade her “Good night! 
and wake up bright and well in the morning !” she clasped 
her arms (so thin Patsey wondered at them) about her 
friend’s neck, and melted into tears. 

“I can’t thank you as I ought to, Mrs. Walker! I 
am not worth it all. But I have had a great deal to bear 
lately, and I am not as strong as I used to be.” 

Mrs. Van Dyck would have been horrified had she seen 
the action and the kiss that responded to it. Patsey 
Walker was a “very common person,” and the caress was 
an impertinence. 

The angels — and the Dominie — might have had a dif- 
ferent opinion. 

The guest was sleeping soundly in the darkened inner 


192 


A LONG LANE 


room, thus strengthening Patsey’s faith in hot milk as a 
soporific, before Dick returned. His mother, hearing his 
footsteps upon the gravel walk, hastened to forestall his 
entrance and possible unnecessary bustle. At sight of 
her lifted finger he came in on tiptoe. As noiselessly she 
went to the chamber-door and listened for sounds to in- 
dicate that he had disturbed the sleeper. Then she shut 
the door carefully and tiptoed back to the fire and her 
son. Not once in the ensuing dialogue was either be- 
trayed into an ejaculation that could have penetrated 
the closed door. 

Dick had delivered his message, word for word, as it 
was dictated to him. Mr. and Mrs. de Baun had veri- 
fied Patsey’s prediction of their trustworthiness, and 
thanked him for putting them upon their guard. This 
settled, the pent-up curiosity Patsey had smothered all 
the evening, broke bounds: 

“Now — for the land’s sake, wherever did you find her.^^” 

Dick’s tale was brief and graphic. He was on his 
way to the woodpile, when he discerned a figure moving 
stealthily between him and the gleaming water at the foot 
of the hill. The creek, swollen by autumnal rains, was 
broad and turbulent, catching the star-rays at a myriad 
points. Nobody could have any sensible motive for wan- 
dering upon the banks on such a cold night, reasoned 
the young man, and he gave chase as stealthily as the noc- 
turnal wanderer glided among the tree-trunks. There 
was an open space upon the brink where his mother some- 
times did her washing in hot weather. When the figure 
reached this space it paused and sat — or knelt — down 
upon the ground. The pause gave the pursuer time to 
get close enough to see that it was a woman, and there 
was something familiar in the outlines. 

We will let him finish the story: 


A LONG LANE 


193 


“Still I never mistrusted who it might be until I heard 
her say out loud — ‘O God! you will forgive me — ^won’t 
you? I am too miserable to live! I can^t bear it any 
longer!’ Then she jumped up and was about to throw 
herself plump into the water — it’s awfully deep just there, 
you know, and rushing like mad — ^when I got hold of her 
cloak. She gave a little scream and tried to get loose, 
and I said — ‘Miss Sarah! it’s only Dick Walker! You 
would have been drowned if I hadn’t been here!’ 

“And then she dropped, like a dead woman, on the 
ground. I thought maybe I had killed her. She might 
have had heart-disease or something, you know.” 

“I’m afraid she has trouble with her heart,” mused 
Patsey, sagely, “but not the kind you’re thinkin’ of. We 
can never be thankful enough that Providence sent you 
to that spot at that very minute. His ways are past 
findin’ out. That cussM brother of hers and her finicky 
mother and old Pharisee of a father have driven her crazy 
— that’s the whole of it. If wishes were horses, M^ill 
Corlaer would be home and lookin’ after her, this blessed 
minute, instead of nursin’ his own health a thousand miles 
away !” 

“That is something else I had to say!” interrupted 
Dick, eagerly. “As I passed the Corlaer house, a buggy 
drove up to the door and stopped. Mr. Corlaer got out 
and another man — not quite so tall — and he moved stiffly. 
But if it wasn’t Will Corlaer, it was somebody enough 
like him to be his twin. I shouldn’t be surprised if he 
had come back unexpectedly.” 

His mother clasped her hands devoutly. “Now, the 
Lord be praised, if this is so! ’Twould seem like provi- 
dence was playin’ right into my hands. I can’t sleep a 
wink without I am sure of it. Do you slip across the 
road and peek into the back windows, or have a word with 


194 


A LONG LANE 


the folks in the kitchen, and find out whether Will is home, 
or not. And not a syllable about who’s here, you under- 
stand !” 

She bent her head upon the table and prayed while he 
was gone. It was the unlettered Christian’s way to carry 
all things, both small and great, to the Friend Who was 
never far from her. Prayer was “tellin’ Him all about 
it,” in her creed. A favorite hymn described it as — 

“the Christian’s vital breath.” 

To support life without it would have been an impossibil- 
ity. 

The answer now was speedy and favorable. Will Cor- 
laer had taken an earlier steamer than that by which 
he had intended to sail, and landed in New York that 
day. Meeting his father by accident in Millville, they 
had come home together. Mrs. Corlaer was wild with de- 
light, crying and laughing together, Dick reported. 

Prayer was changed to praise in Patsey’s soul. She 
actually hugged her son in the exultation that possessed 
her. There was no longer the shadow of a doubt as to 
the position held by Providence. The near-catastrophe 
which had brought Sarah Van Dyck to her door that 
night, was a part of the plan. Her next step was to get 
Sarah safely into the Parsonage, and — in some way — 
to be indicated by Providence — to let Will Corlaer know 
that she was there. 

The face that met Sarah’s eyes at her awakening in 
the morning was an irresistible tonic. 

The patient acknowledged the potency in the response 
to the confident — “You’re ever and ever so much bet- 
ter, dear child !” 

“It makes me feel better to look at youV' 


A LONG LANE 


195 

The plain visage, goodly with reflected light from 
within, brightened at the tribute. 

‘‘That’s the best thing you could have said! Now, 
I’m going to sponge your face and hands with warm 
water, with just a dash of cologne in it to freshen you 
up. Then you’ll have breakfast in bed, and lie still a 
little while. Dick’s had his and gone, an hour ago. 
When you’re good and rested. I’ll walk along with you 
to the Parsonage. Unless, maybe, you’d like to have 
the Dominie come for you in the buggy.” 

Sarah protested. She was “quite well, after last night’s 
rest.” 

“I didn’t know I could ever sleep soundly again,” she 
owned, gratefully. “I believe — ” with a sickly attempt 
at humour — “that you put laudanum into that hot milk.” 

“No need to do it, honey! The milk does the business 
by itself. It’s a beautiful day — cold, but the wind went 
down about midnight, and the sun is shining bright. If 
you are strong enough to walk so far, the air will do 
you good. My husband used to say the air that blows off* 
the Kinapeg hills was like iced-champagne. Not that he 
had drunk enough champagne to be much of a judge of 
the article!” 

Her laugh went well with her jovial face. She 
was mopping the hollowed temples and trying not to 
notice that she could see the light through the wasted 
hands. 

“What you want is plenty of it — the air, I mean — 
You’ve stayed too close at home, this great while. And 
worried too much. Everything’s cornin’ out right pretty 
soon. You look as sweet as a rose. Now, for break- 
fast !” 

Her cheery prattle flowed on while the toast, coffee and 
poached egg were served. If they were not partaken of 


A LONG LANE 


196 

zestfully, she was not disappointed. She had her recom- 
pense in the languid smile and — 

“I have not eaten so much, this long while. Every- 
thing you cook tastes just right. I did not know any- 
thing could be so good ever again.” 

“Makes me say what I do say!” rejoined Patsey, in 
her briskest manner: “What you need is change! And 
you’ve got to have it — or I’ll know the reason why. Stop 
worrying! That’s the first thing! Next is — Believe 
everything is bound to come out right in God’s own 
time !” 

She had the outer room in order before Sarah appeared 
from the inner. 

The sunlight poured through the window, and the fire 
was all a-glow with rival radiance. A tortoise-shell cat 
basked upon the rug. The window-sills were filled with 
scarlet geraniums. 

Sarah took a long breath as if to inhale the light with 
the warmth. 

“O, how delightful! I had no idea this was such a 
nice room.” She caught sight of the time-piece on the 
mantel and started in amazement. “Can it be nine 
o’clock! Why did you let me sleep so long? I’m afraid 
it has hindered your work.” 

^‘My work, just now, is to please myself by seein’ how 
comfortable I can make the very sweetest girl in Kina- 
peg!” asserted the hostess. “I fair hate to have you go, 
but when you feel able, we’ll stroll toward the Parson- 
age. Take your time! It would tickle me to pieces to 
have you stay all day with me.” 

Once outside, she insisted they should “take it easy” 
for the first hundred yards. Innate delicacy restrained 
her inclination to loiter on the bridge and look down 
into the swift, brown waters that filled the channel from 


A LONG LANE 


197 


bank to bank. She recollected how dark and wild 
they were last night, and the deep hollow close to the 
shore. 

“Was there ever such a day!” lifting her head to get 
her fill of the mountain-breeze. “And don’t the steeple 
look just too pretty in the sunshine.? I always do say 
that our Church and Parsonage make the nicest picture 
anybody would want to have. And the folks inside the 
Parsonage suit the picture.” 

The breeze had beaten a faint pink into Sarah’s cheeks 
by the time Mrs. de Baun, having seen them from the 
window, met them in the porch. 

Again Patsey’s inborn tact was manifest in her re- 
fusal to go in. She must “hurry back and look after 
bakin’ and churnin’ and mercy knew how many other 
odds-and-ends.” 

She did not care to meet Mrs. de Baun’s steady, inter- 
rogative eyes, or to be obliged to dodge the truth under 
the Dominie’s questionings into the nature of the swoon 
which had prostrated the girl at her door. Somehow, 
circumlocution — no matter how righteous the cause in 
which it was employed — was a difficult task when facing 
her pastor. Lastly, reasoned the arch-strategist, duties 
more important than baking and butter-making awaited 
her nearer home. She trusted devoutly that Providence 
would not force her hand. If it did — well, there! it was 
against her principles to cross a bridge before she got 
to it. 

She got home without meeting a human being, and 
shut herself safely within her sanctum. Not trying to 
account for the haste with which she set the inner room 
in order and the expectant flutter she could not calm 
as she sat down to her sewing, the room as tidy as head 
and hands could make it — she knew that she was waiting 


A LONG LANE 


198 

and hoping — and praying — for the sound of a step with- 
out, and a familiar “rap ! rap ! rap !” upon her door. 

It was ten o’clock before step and knock were heard. 
The latch was lifted with the confidence of a frequent 
visitor. 

“I knew you were at home.^’ said Will Corlaer, shak- 
ing the hands laid in his. “I saw you come back. I saw 
you go, too, from my window. Sit down, and tell me 
about her.” He had not let her hand go in seating him- 
self and her. “I watched you all the way to the Parson- 
age. How is she, Patsey?” 

She waived preliminaries as recklessly as he disdained 
them: 

“Well, Mr. Will! if you want the plain, flat-footed 
truth, they have nigh upon killed her amongst them. 
She fainted clean-away at my door last night. She was 
expected to stay all night at the Parsonage, but she got 
no further than this. And when she come to, I kep’ her, 
of course, and sent word to Mrs. de Baun where she was. 
This mornin’ I took her to the Parsonage, as you saw. 
She’s wore away pretty near to skin-and-bone. It’s been 
bad enough for all of them, but she’s taken it hardest. 
I can’t help thinkin’ if you’d been home, it would have 
been different, somehow.” 

“I came as soon as I heard of it, Patsey! Nobody 
was friendly enough to let me know it until Mrs. de Baun, 
like the angel she is, wrote to me. I sailed by the first 
boat after I had her letter. I have not spoken of the 
story at home, and they take for granted that I know 
nothing of it. I was sure you would be fair and square 
with me. I should have gone straight to Mrs. de Baun 
if I hadn’t espied you from the window. They are aU 
against me. It almost broke her heart to know that, be- 
fore I went away. She told me once that she would never 


A LONG LANE 


199 

marry me so long as my father and mother opposed me. 
By heaven! she shall marry me now, if I have to drag 
her to the minister! I will show her there is one person 
in the world who will stand between her and disgrace, 
and try to make up to her for all she has suffered!” 

She saw, now, in the broad light from the window, that 
he was haggard and thin from his recent illness ; the eye- 
lids were reddened, as by loss of sleep; the eyes glared 
upon her as she strove to soothe him: 

‘‘Willie, boy! I have nursed you in these arms when 
you were a baby, and I’m goin’ to stand by you, now.^ 
Don’t you worry over what she said then. She’ll never 
need a friend more’n she does now. Go to her right away 
and tell her you’ve come home, on-a-purpose to marry 
her, if the whole world and all the kingdoms of it were 
against it. Don’t take ‘NO!’ for an answer. If I was 
you, I’d buttonhole the Dominie, and force him to make 
you man-and-wife before the day is over. You are free 
to marry when you like, and she was twenty-one in July. 
If she wasn’t, her parents wouldn’t oppose it.” 

Distracted though he was with grief and indignation, 
Will could not help smiling. 

“The Dominie wouldn’t perform the ceremony in such 
circumstances. He is my father’s friend. Nor do I 
want to marry without letting my parents understand 
what I mean to do — and why. I am tolerably sure I 
can win my mother to my side. If my father holds out — 
why, he must ! He has a will of iron. But I am his son ! 
I will fight for her and for happiness to the end !” 

He had talked down the heat of passion, but the set 
of his jaw and an ugly red spark far down in his eyes 
warned the observer that Wilhelmus Corlaer had the fight 
of his life before him. Patsey’s stout spirit trembled at 
the prospect. 


200 


A LONG LANE 


‘‘Time enough for that, dear! Many’s the time I’ve 
heard Mrs. de Baun say, ‘God always gives us light 
enough for the next step.’ There’s several steps between 
you and your father. You’ve got to go first to the Par- 
sonage- — straight as you can walk — before she goes 
home — and tell her why you won’t take ‘No’ for an 
answer. Make her understand that angels and principali- 
ties and powers can’t keep her from you. She is pos- 
sessed with the notion that the family is disgraced, and, 
between you and me and the post, she ain’t far wrong. 
But the family ain’t herF* 

WiU laughed outright there. Then he sobered sud- 
denly. 

“If she tells me that disgrace has touched her, it will 
make no difference. I must impress that upon her. Good- 
bye, Patsey! Thank you a thousand times for what 
you’ve said. I told mother I was coming over to see 
you. If she should send for me, tell her I am at the Par- 
sonage.” 

Mrs. de Baun and her young friend sat before the fire 
in the back-parlour when Rebecca Jane presented herself 
with a portentous air. (“I could think of nothing but 
‘big with news of Cato and of Rome,’ ” said the lady 
afterward to her husband.) 

“If you wouldn’t mind, ma’am, I’d like to speak to 
you!” Anticipating nothing more momentous than the 
tidings of a domestic mishap, the mistress of the manse, 
too used to her handmaiden’s ways to be alarmed, fol- 
lowed her into the front hall where stood Will Corlaer, 
hat in hand. 

The ready-witted woman lifted a warning finger. 

“This way!” she whispered, convoyed him into the 
dining-room, and left him for a word to Rebecca Jane. 
“Tell Miss Sarah that I will be back in a few minutes. 


A LONG LANE 


201 


and don’t say who is here. Behave as if nothing were 
amiss ! / trust youT^ Saying which, she shut herself 

into the dining-room with her visitor. 

If Sarah had surmised the “thing amiss,” her conjec- 
tures were removed by the notes rippling from above 
where the songstress was polishing the brass stair-rods, 

“Blest be the tie that binds 
Our hearts in Christian love ; 

The fellowship of kindred minds 
Is like to that above. 

^‘We share each other’s woes. 

Our mutual burdens bear. 

And often for each other flows 
The sympathetic tear.” 

“I must have laughed when I heard her, if it had been 
at my own funeral!” the wife recounted that night in 
the safe seclusion of the study. “But it broke the ice. 
The poor boy was in the thickest of his story — and she 
articulates with such frightful distinctness 1 He looked 
horrified at my laugh, for a second. Then he caught the 
words, and had to be amused. Nothing could have been 
more apropos. I prepared Sarah by a very few words. 
I said — ^‘WiU Corlaer is here, dear. He has hurried 
back to see and to tell you that nothing can change him. 
He knows this sorrow has not disgraced you. If it had, 
he would love you all the more. I want you to listen to 
him patiently. It is but once in a life-time that a woman 
is loved as this true-hearted man loves you.’^ 

“Then I sent him in. You know the rest.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


P ATSEY WALKER ^‘knew the rest’’ before Dick 
came in for his midday meal. Whether sewing, or 
shredding cabbage, slicing onions, or peeling potatoes, 
she kept an eye upon the bridge seen through her western 
window. When finally she espied a figure, more alert 
and better-dressed than operative or farm-laborer, upon 
the road leading from the Parsonage to the creek, the 
potato she was preparing dropped with a splash in the 
pan underneath; she wiped her hands upon the roller- 
towel, tore off her checked apron and tied on a white one 
in frantic haste. One might have fancied it was her own 
sweetheart she met at the door, so irregular was her 
breathing, so sanguine her complexion. 

“You needn’t say a word! Your eyes speak for you!” 
she ejaculated after one glance. “I’m that thankful I 
could fall upon my knees on this very spot and shout 
‘Hallelujah!’ Come in! Sit there in the arm-chair and 
get your wind. You needn’t have walked so fast. Good 
news’ll keep. I knew, the minute I saw you on the other 
side of the bridge, how it had turned out. When you 
went away from here, you used your cane to walk with, 
like any other man would. When you come back, you 
swung it high. There’s a great deal in the way a man 
carries his cane. Yours gave you away — clean and en- 
tirely.” 

There was no stopping her until the talk ran itself 
down with a final gasp. 


202 


A LONG LANE 


203 


Will Corlaer laughed as he seldom laughed — a merry 
outburst as spontaneous as her garrulity. He was 
graver than most men of his age, and never voluble — 
a marked contrast to his sisters. 

“Don’t be too sure!” he cautioned, when she let him 
speak. “So far as matters have gone, it’s all right. She 
did not pretend not to be glad to see me. In fact she 
said it was ‘good to feel she had a friend near her whom 
she could depend upon.’ When she saw I was shocked 
to see how thin and changed she was, she began to com- 
fort me. What other would have thought of it? She 
begged me ‘not to worry about her. I must get back my 
strength’ and so on, until I stopped her. She let me 
have my say out then. But! a fellow can’t talk about 
such things even to his best friends!” 

“Of course not, and you needn’t !” encouraged Patsey. 
“So long as it’s all come out right, it’s nobody’s business 
how it was done. If she didn’t say ‘No,’ nothing else 
matters much.” 

“She did not say ‘No,’” rejoined the suitor, slowly. 
“But it was not all plain sailing. As I had expected, 
she made a stand upon the old subject — the opposition 
of my family. When I told her, once for all, that it was 
played out, what do you think she brought up next? 
She says she ‘is too wicked to marry anybody.’ Did you 
ever hear such stuff?” 

Patsey joined in the laugh, but less heartily than if 
the memory of the near-tragedy of last night had not 
been fresh in her mind. 

Aloud, she said — “The silly child ! If we were all half 
as good, we’d be ripe for the Kingdom. And what did 
you say to that?” 

He was serious enough now. “I told her that, if she 
were the wickedest sinner in the universe, I shouldn’t love 


204 


A LONG LANE 


her a bit less. That, if she would marry me, Fd take her 
to have and to hold so long as we both should live. She 
did not speak for a minute. Then a beautiful little smile 
lighted up her face, and she said, putting her hand in 
mine of her own accord — ‘I wouldn’t believe any other 
man who said that. Will Corlaer! I really believe you 
mean what you say!’ Then, she went on, as solemn- 
ly as if she was repeating the marriage ceremony — 
‘When I am stronger and you are stronger, we will 
talk all these things over, as we can’t to-day. And 
then if you still want me, — ^and if your father wiU 
consent ’ ” 

He broke off there, jumped up and strode over to the 
window. Patsey gazed at his back with loving, pitying 
eyes. His shoulders heaved; the hands hanging at his 
side were clenched. She opened her mouth, and then 
brought the jaws together with a click like the fall of 
a rat-trap. After all, when Will should hear of it from 
the lips of the “sinner,” he would more than forgive the 
attempt to throw away the life his absence had made un- 
bearable. 

“He’ll love her all the better for it!” she reassured 
herself by thinking. “And, maybe, when it comes to the 
scratch, she won’t let on a word of it anyhow.” 

Will wheeled abruptly upon her. “I tell you, Pat- 
sey, I felt like a devil when I listened ! If she is a sinner y 
what am 1?” 

He turned back to the window. This was getting 
tragic. Without quite comprehending the change of 
scene, Patsey felt the time had arrived for a diversion. 
She chuckled at a funny recollection: 

“You two foolish children remind me of what I heard 
a man say about St. Paul’s calling himself ‘the chief of 
sinners.’ He said, ‘I think that was real conceited in 


A LONG LANE 


20 ^ 


St. Paul!’ ” the chuckle waxing into a guffaw. “You can 
tell her that story when she begins to mourn over her 
sins. Brag a bit about yourn!” 

The witticism fell flat. He gave no sign of having 
heard it. Leaving his outlook, he gathered gloves, hat 
and stick, and held out his hand: 

“I must go! My mother was out on the porch just 
now, looking up the road. For me, no doubt. By the 
way, I have been thinking of your advice as to telling 
her first, and letting her break the blow to my father. It 
would be cowardly, as I look at it. I never saw her so 
wrought up over any subject as she was when I told her, 
a year ago, that I meant to marry Sarah Van Dyck if 
she would have me. She is so happy at having me at 
home and alive that I won’t ruin her comfort by making 
her my mouthpiece. Don’t interrupt me!” He spoke 
fast, and with a hardening of every lineament which im- 
parted the curious resemblance to the father he was plan- 
ning to defy. “My mind is made up. She shall have 
one peaceful night. George Adrain — you know he is 
engaged to Carrie?” 

Patsey assented by a nod. 

“A very nice young chap, he seems to be, too. I am 
glad she has chosen a decent fellow this time. George 
Adrain — as I was saying, will be in to supper, and I 
won’t be a kill-joy. This afternoon, I am to have a busi- 
ness-talk with my father — give an account of my steward- 
ship, and all that. I can’t make such a brilliant showing 
as he is likely to get from my other brother-in-law that- 
is-to-be when he comes home. But it will be fair enough 
to put him into a good humour for twenty-four hours. 
To-morrow morning, I shall spring the mine — and take 
the consequences !” 

Patsey was fondling his hand between her calloused 


2o6 


A LONG LANE 


palms. She clutched it now, hard and fast, and gazed 
imploringly into his eyes: 

“My own dear boy! Don’t do anything rash! Your 
father is a good Christian, but he has the temper of the 
old Harry himself. He loves your mother, faithful and 
true, with every drop of blood in his body. But he’s 
had so much to do with iron all his life — a miserable 
effort to be jocose — ^“seems to me, sometimes, some of 
it’s got into his heart and blood. If anybody can coax 
him out of a notion, she can! You are the dearest crea- 
ture in the world to her. I mind how my mother, who wa^ 
with her when you were born, told me the poor lady put 
her hands together when she was told ’twas a boy, and 
her smile, they said, was like a light from heaven — and 
called out — have gotten a man from the Lord!’ It 
would just kill her if so be you and he was to quarrel. 
Don’t make him madder’n you can help ! And another 
thing! Sarah’s father ain’t overly well-off, and if your 
father turns you out of the house, who’s goin’ to support 
her and you! You’ve got to consider all these things.” 

He wrested his hand from her grasp and pulled on his 
glove. His features were set in the likeness which, some- 
how, made her blood run cold, but his tone was gentle: 

“I have thought of it, dear old friend! You may not 
know that my grandmother’s will left me twice as much 
of her property as my sisters have. I have my father’s 
and my grandfather’s name. We would not be rich. 
Neither would we be poor. You may be easy upon an- 
other point! I shall do my best to persuade my father 
to be reasonable and just to the son who has Been dutiful 
to him always — except in the question of my life-long 
happiness. I promise you this.” 

His expression softened strangely. For the first time 
in his life, he bent down and kissed her cheek: 


A LONG LANE 


207 


“Good-bye, Patsey, dear! Whatever happens, you 
have done your duty. By the way, Sarah will spend a 
few days with Mrs. de Baun. It would do her good to 
see you when you can run in. Mrs. de Baun charged 
me not to forget to tell you.” 

Through the end-window, Patsey saw him cross the 
road and enter the gate to his home. Cold though it was, 
stately Mrs. Corlaer, wrapped in a shawl, her silver hair 
shining like an aureole, met her boy upon the porch and 
took him in her arms, regardless of possible observa- 
tion. 

Patsey sank into her rocking-chair and cried out her 
misgivings into the clean white apron. 

If Mrs. Corlaer had apprehended unhappy results 
from the interview, her fears were dissipated before the 
family met about the supper-tahle. Her husband in- 
formed her, in the few moments they found for a private 
consultation, that “the boy had really rendered a more 
than tolerably satisfactory account of the business-trip.” 

“I am beginning to have hopes of him,” was the con- 
clusion of the colloquy. “Always supposing he does not 
hamper himself by an ill-judged marriage. It is a hope- 
ful sign that he did not rush around to see that girl as 
soon as he got home.” 

He put his arm about his wife in saying it, and kissed 
her forehead. Both comprehended that the relief and 
thankfulness were mutual. 

The evening meal was enlivened by the presence of a 
self-invited guest. 

It was Rhoda Brouwer’s turn to “manage” the monthly 
entertainment at the Guard House. It was her idea that 
the old name should be retained. 

“It couldn’t be improved,” she had declared at a busi- 
ness meeting of the “Social Circle.” “It is really the 


2o8 


A LONG LANE 


best guard we could have against dissipation and all that, 
don’t you know? I move, Mrs. Chairman, that the place 
we hope will make us happy and good, be known still as 
‘the Guard House.’ ” 

She could be as impressive as her father when she 
chose. To a Committee of six — three matrons and three 
unmarried members of the “Social Circle” — was assigned 
the duty of arranging a special “affair” once a month. 
The Guard House was open every evening for the use of 
all who cared to lounge in the cheerful precincts for an 
hour or two. Mrs. Walker kept it tidy and cool in sum- 
mer, tidy and warm in winter. Picknickers in summer, 
sleighing- and skating-parties in winter, might gather 
there as the starting-point of expeditions, and return for 
a supper ordered for the occasion. 

Rhoda had worked “like a beaver” as she phrased it, 
all the afternoon, run home to dress at six o’clock and 
then run into the Corlaers’ for supper. 

“It is absolutely necessary to be on the ground early,” 
she continued to run on at the table. “I told Mrs. 
Walker to send for me if she wanted advice or anything 
else. I knew I could take the liberty with you, Mrs. Cor- 
iaer, and there are hundreds of things I must consult 
the girls about before the curtain rises. I have a musical 
programme for the first part of the evening. No, Mar- 
garita !” pointedly, and humorously — “ ‘Mary of Argyle’ 
is not among the songs! You must know, Mr. Adrain, 
that I made an awful faux pas in September by singing 
that song. You have heard it, of course? The very 
sweetest thing ever written! Everybody applauded at 
one end of the room. Nobody moved a hand at the other 
end, and when I looked over there to see, why, there, if 
you please, was Miss Margarita Corlaer dissolved in 
tears, and half-a-dozen women snivelling in sympathy! 


A LONG LANE 


209 

And each of the half-dozen made it her business to tell 
me, afterward, that I might have known better than to 
select a song which Mr. Lang introduced to us. He sang 
it like a seraph, I will admit. And it was rank pre- 
sumption in me to attempt it.” 

Mr. Adrain responded gallantly to forestall Marga- 
rita’s blushes : 

“I have no doubt you sang it like a cherub, Miss 
Brouwer.” 

Carrie gave a little squeal of delight. “Thank him, 
Margarita, for the pretty speech! I wonder, by the 
way, who does most of the singing in heaven — seraphs 
or cherubs.? Does anybody know.?” 

“Shakespeare tells us that — 


“ ‘The smallest star — 

In his motion, like an angel, sings. 

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim’ ” — 

quoted Mr. Corlaer, and his wife smiled brightly. 

He must be in a most genial mood when he took part 
in the young people’s nonsense. 

“From that we might infer that the cherubim are 
listeners, and the seraphim are musicians” — she fol- 
lowed his lead. “So you were right, Rhoda.” 

If consideration for Margarita moved them to badi- 
nage, they might have spared themselves the effort. She 
struck in now spiritedly: 

“I don’t care if you do make fun of me, Mr. Adrain.” 

^^GeorgeT' corrected her sister. “How would you like 
to have me call Norman, Mr. Lang!” 

“George, then!” and the newly-affianced bowed his ac- 
knowledgments. “I leave it to you if it was not enough 
to make me cry, to hear that song when the person who 


210 


A LONG LANE 


was always associated in my mind with it, was three thou- 
sand miles away.” 

“And he far away on the billow,” chanted the irrepres- 
sible Carrie. 

The laugh that greeted the taking-down of sentimen- 
tality was checked by a surprising apparition. 

Sauchy Van Dyck projected herself through the 
doorway and marched directly up to the master of the 
house : 

she croaked in her harshest tone. “Got her? 
No?” Sweeping the company with a comprehensive 
glare, she fixed it upon Mr. Adrain, and passed to Car- 
rie’s frightened face. 

“Smerden? NoT* she vociferated, levelling a bony 
finger, first at one, then the other of the pair. “Baby! 
where A string of gibberish ensued, rising to a shriek. 

She looked like one of the Eumenides in her long black 
cloak and hood pushed back from a mop of grizzled 
hair. Mrs. Corlaer laid a soothing hand upon the ex- 
cited woman’s shoulder, but her son anticipated her. 

“Miss Sauchy!” he said, firmly and kindly. “Come 
with me, and I will show you where she is.” 

At the moment of her entrance he had given a rapid 
order to the butler, unobserved by any one excepting his 
mother who supposed he wished to clear the room of the 
gaping servants. 

“Yes!” he proceeded, in reply to the wild stare fixed 
upon his calm face. “I will go with you, and find what 
you want. Come !” 

It was apparent that she connected Carrie and her 
lover with the loss of her darling. Yielding reluctantly 
to the gentle force impelling her toward the door, she 
never took her eyes from the girl. 

“Steal her? Kill you!” she snarled through her teeth. 


A LONG LANE 


211 


‘‘Never mind her! She is all right! Come with me!” 
persisted Will, good-humouredly. 

Besides Adrain, and possibly Rhoda Brouwer, there 
was no one present who did not divine that the distraught 
mind associated Carrie with the scene in the woods of 
many months ago. She could not formulate, verbally, 
her thought that, having saved the girl from Smerden, 
she had a right to expect aid from the family in her 
frenzied quest for her child. Carrie subsided, faintingly, 
into her lover’s arms, as Will succeeded in getting the in- 
truder into the hall and shutting the door. 

Mr. Corlaer followed them. 

Even in the moment of intense excitement, it may be 
that he scented the danger of letting his son meet the 
Van Dycks. 

“Well done, my boy!” he whispered in his ear. “But 
I will see her home ! She is always tractable with me !” 

“My buggy is at the door, sir! I ordered it as soon 
as I saw her. I will drive her home, and see that there is 
no further disturbance.” He was composed enough to 
add, smilingly : “I was always in her good books. Come, 
AuntyT 

Wilhelmus Corlaer scowled, as a grin overspread 
Sauchy’s visage. She had caught the sense of the last 
remark. Without a struggle, she allowed father and 
son to dispose of her in the carriage and tuck the fur 
rug about her knees. Will climbed in after her and took 
up the reins. His father had a last warning: 

“You will not stay long.^” 

“I shall not, sir ! Say as much to mother !” 

If Mr. Corlaer had tarried in the porch until the car- 
riage passed out of the gate, he might have queried why 
it took the longer road to the Van Dyck homestead. It 
was half-a-mile further to go by the church. Will spoke 


212 


A LONG LANE 


but once on the way down-hill. That was in answer to 
the clutch upon his arm and the guttural — Wrong!” 

“She is at the Parsonage, Aunty I” 

He had used the word, advisedly, in coaxing her to 
leave the house, and counted wisely upon its effect now. 
It was Sarah’s name for her. To the nephews she 
was “Aunt Sauch 1” when they had occasion to ad- 
dress her. 

As a rule, they rarely troubled themselves to notice 
her, unless to bid her as there!” perform some 

household task. It was literally true. Will reflected now, 
with a pain at heart, that not a human creature cared 
whether she lived or died, with one solitary exception. 
With the compassionate ache, went the unuttered — “God 
bless her!” 

It was a relief that the Dominie himself opened the 
door. Rebecca Jane was fortunately dressing up-stairs 
to take her daughter to the Concert at the Guard House. 
Awed by the silence of the two men who had exchanged 
meaning glances, but never a syllable, Sauchy stood with 
Will in the chilly front-parlour where there was no light, 
save what fell through the door from the hall-lamp, while 
Mr. de Baun prepared his wife and guest for the meet- 
ing. 

With the tact that never deserted her, the mistress of 
the manse sent Sauchy alone into the room where her 
niece awaited her. Those without heard a cry, as of a 
wild animal who finds her missing young, and Sarah’s 
cooing tones. Then the murmur of her tender voice in re- 
assuring pleading. 

“It’s all right now!” Will turned to his companions. 
“I promised that she should go home, and she must ! She 
probably ran away without being missed. Knowing 
Sarah to be with you, they will look for Miss Sauchy here. 


A LONG LANE 


213 


the first thing. If you will get your buggy up, we will 
take them both back. She will not leave here without 
her niece. And there is no time to be lost. They may 
miss her at any minute.” 

The three women went up to Sarah’s room to pack 
her clothes in the valise in which the Dominie had brought 
them that morning. Rebecca Jane could be heard in 
the third story, carolling, to the tune of “Christmas” — 

“Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve. 

And press with vigour on !” 

The energetical lilt bore witness to the height her 
spirit had attained. Her mistress inly congratulated 
herself that the melody selected was not in a minor dimin- 
uendo. The two travellers were cloaked and hooded, and 
in the lower hall, when the Dominie announced a change 
of passengers: 

“Miss Sauchy will go with me! She knows my horse,” 
as he might address a timid child. “Will, you will see 
that Sarah gets home safe. Drive in front of us. Then 
we’ll be sure you’re thereT* 

The jolly accent and friendly hold of her arm ap- 
peased Sauchy’s suspicion that her “Baby” might still 
elude her. Mrs. de Baun bade her an affectionate fare- 
well, and thanked her for coming to see her. 

“You must stay longer next time!” she added. Her 
murmur to Sarah, in the embrace that strained her to 
her bosom, was — “I shall see you again soon, dear child. 
I am thankful you are to have this little ride with him.” 

“How full the sky is of stars!” Will broke the silence 
by saying while they were passing the churchyard. “I 
think I never saw so many before, and they were never so 
bright !” 


214 A LONG LANE 

A cold little hand stole into that which sought it under 
the fur robe. 

‘‘I shall never forget what you have done to- 
night , — dear Will!” It was a whisper, but he got every 
word. 

“And I can never forget that, my darling! You belong 
to me!” 

Hearts were too full for further speech. Neither of 
the twain was naturally affluent in words. But the small 
hand lay in the fervent clasp that would not release it, 
all the starlit way, and it was raised to the lover’s lips 
when they halted at the end of the short journey. 

“I shall see you to-morrow, sweet one! Think of me 
and love me as much as you can!” 

It had been arranged, before they left the Parsonage, 
that the Dominie should take the aunt and niece into 
the Van Dyck house and diplomatically smooth over the 
escapade of the elder. He had no scruples in making a 
feature of Will’s escort of Sauchy to the manse, and 
thence of Sarah to her home. He had not held a country 
pastorate eight years without learning that play upon 
ignoble motives is not, of necessity, unworthy of a Christ- 
ian minister when a right end is to be gained. 

Mr. and Mrs. Corlaer were in the sitting-room await- 
ing their son’s return. The younger members of the 
supper-party had been swept by Rhoda Brouwer to the 
Guard House. 

The parents did not question verbally. Both looked 
the intensity of desire to know the sequel of the son’s ad- 
venture. 

“I drove directly to the Parsonage,” he said, simply; 
“I knew Mr. de Baun could advise me what to do. Sarah 
was there. Her aunt did not know where she was, and 
took it into her head she had been kidnapped. The Do- 


A LONG LANE 


215 

minie and I took them home. That is all I know. I did 
not go in, or see any of the family.” 

‘‘That was wise!” rejoined the father. 

The mother’s look was eloquent of loving admiration. 

^^Very wise!” continued Mr. Corlaer. “We were sorry 
you had to go, but something had to be done — and at 
once. She is growing more unmanageable every day. 
She ought to be in an Asylum. She is a menace to the 
neighbourhood. I am sorry you were put to so much 
trouble to get her home.” 

“It was right that I should be, father. I felt that 
we owed her that much — and more!” 

Mrs. Corlaer’s eyes met her husband’s, meaningly. 

“He is right, my dear! We should thank him for 
doing his part to repay the poor creature for the great 
service she did us.” 

The father held out his hand, in frank cordiality: 

“We thank you, my boy! And for relieving us 
all so cleverly and quickly from a most unpleasant 
position.” 

“And he lost his dessert!” Mrs. Corlaer interposed to 
lessen the strain upon both. “Chocolate trifle and sponge 
cake, too! just what he likes best of all sweets! I had 
some put aside for you. Will you come into the dining- 
room and get it, or have it brought in here ?” 

Will smiled wearily. “Neither, thank you, mother 
dear ! I am not hungry. It has been a tiresome day for 
me, and I am not quite my old self, yet !” 

He arose in speaking, and they noticed, as thej’^ had 
not before, the alteration in figure and face. He seemed 
to have lost vitality with weight. His flesh was flabby, 
his motions were languid. 

“W^e are keeping you up when you should be in bed !” 
exclaimed the mother, self-reproachfully. “You shall 


2i6 


A LONG LANE 


go up stairs this minute ! Here’s your candle ! Knock 
upon the floor and I will come and tuck you in !” 

With the jesting tone went a worshipful look never 
seen except in a mother’s face. His jaded spirits re- 
vived, in coupling it with the thought of that other con- 
fessed love. 

“Then I won’t say ‘good night’ to you,” he returned, 
and shook hands with his father. “Good night, sir ! Can 
you give me half-an-hour to-morrow morning There is 
a matter I omitted to speak of to-day. I will not detain 
you long.” 

His manner was purposely careless. His mother’s 
rest should not be broken by vague uneasiness. He even 
repressed a yawn behind his lifted hand as he spoke. 

“Certainly, my boy! I go up to the Forge at ten 
o’clock. Come to the office at nine.” 

The mother carried a glass of egg-nogg to her boy’s 
room when she answered the signal agreed upon. Will 
lay back upon the pillow with a deep sigh of satisfaction, 
and wiped the creamy foam from his lips after draining 
the tumbler. 

“There’s nothing like it, the world around — when ^ou 
make it! I don’t care a fig for it unless you do. Mom- 
sie, darling !” He had her in his arms now, and was hold- 
ing her close. “I am not the man 3mur son ought to be, 
but I do love you with all my heart and soul! Every 
night when I say the prayer you taught me when I was 
a wee shaver, kneeling on the floor with my head in your 
lap, I add to it — ‘Thank God for the dearest, sweetest, 
noblest mother ever given to a sinful man!’ Don’t cry, 
dearest!” for he felt the wet cheek laid against his. 
“You ought to be happy to know that you have not 
wasted all the love and care you have lavished upon me. 
God will reward jmu for it. I can give nothing but love.” 


A LONG LANE 


217 


“I want nothing more.” She raised herself to look 
into his eyes. ‘‘Nothing else — and to know that you are 
happy. I won’t keep you awake now. 

“But I must tell you what comfort and peace it brings 
to me to see you and your father upon such affectionate 
terms. He is very much pleased with the way you have 
managed the business he entrusted to you. I think it 
would hill me to see you two at variance with one another ! 

For ” breaking through her enforced composure, she 

dropped upon her knees and took him in her arms — “my 
boy! my man I got from the Lord! you are the core of 
my heartr^ 

He said it over and over to himself, when she had gone, 
lying awake in the dark, and seeming to see the yearning 
in her eyes, hear the passionate cadence of her dear 
voice. 

“I should be a hound — a devil! if I ever caused her 
a pang I could spare her!” was his last waking thought 
uttered aloud in the still darkness. “God helping me, 
that shall never be!” 


CHAPTER XX 


T he morrow was a red-letter day for Carrie Cor- 
laer. She, with her mother and Margarita, was to 
begin the purchase of her trousseau. 

“The fasliions may change three times before poor 
dear Rita would be safe in buying dresses and wraps 
and bonnets,” she had explained to her betrothed, the 
evening before, over coffee and cake in a corner of the 
Guard House. “Of course, there’s no question about 
Norman’s making a figure in the world. Father was talk- 
ing to one of the Trustees in Princeton about him the 
other day. He says there’s sure to be an opening for 
him in some University or College by the time he’s ready 
for it. He won’t be home before spring — maybe later — 
so it would be foolish for Rita to so much as look at 
fashions now. It must be fearful to be separated all 
that time!” 

“I am very thankful it is different with us I” rejoined 
the lover in suitable phrase, and with conventional ardour. 
“Three months is the limit of my endurance. Three days 
would suit me better!” 

The parents acquiesced obligingly in his desire for a 
brief betrothal. He was in a fair business, well-born 
and bred; good-looking and pleas ant-tempered and in- 
dubitably in love with the daughter whose prankishness 
had been the source of lively solicitude ever since she was 
out of short frocks. It was more than they had dared 
to hope for that she should be taken into the shelter of 

218 


A LONG LANE 


219 

eminently respectable wife-hood and home with such dizzy- 
ing swiftness. 

The drive through the village that glorious autumnal 
day was, to Carrie, a triumphal progress. The family 
carriage, with colored coachman and a pair of high- 
stepping horses, was to convey the three ladies and Mr. 
Adrain to Millville, where they would take the train to 
New York. They made an early start, “to have a long 
day for shopping.” So Carrie took pains to represent 
in apology for the seven o’clock breakfast. 

“The days are getting awfully short ! And the trip 
both ways won’t leave us half the time we need.” 

The stream of operatives on the way to the Works, 
the clerks in store and post-office, the inmates of the Mo- 
hock House — the new hotel in the village — and house- 
wives in general, were in the way of seeing the equipage 
roll down the turnpike, and would not be slow in learn- 
ing what errand had brought the quartette abroad at 
the unseasonable hour. 

Ambitions, manoeuvres and triumph were petty — but 
Carrie’s soul was not large. 

At ten minutes of nine. Will Corlaer walked down the 
road toward his father’s office. He was not so tall as the 
senior whose name he bore, yet as erect as a young 
pine, and he carried himself well. But it could not es- 
cape the notice of those who had known him since child- 
hood that his step was less brisk than of old, and his over- 
coat hung loosely from spare shoulders. He had never 
been stalwart. It would be rank flattery now to call 
him robust. 

Entering the private office without knocking, he found 
Dick Walker seated at a desk, a pile of letters in front 
of him. As he arose to greet his employer’s son. Will 
was struck with the marvellous transformation from the 


220 


A LONG LANE 


village lad into the man-of-alfairs. His features had 
refined; his modest self-possession might have had back 
of it the training of years of association with men of 
breeding. 

‘‘Good native wood! It takes polish well!” was Will’s 
inward comment, as he shook hands as with his equal. 

“How goes it, Dick.^ I have not seen you since I got 
back. The world seems to have agreed well with you. I 
have had a pretty sharp turn of fever, you know.” 

“So we heard. My mother tells me you have pulled 
through the worst of it. I hope the mountain air will 
set you up all right again. There’s no finer anywhere.” 

“I wish it could work upon me as it does upon you,” 
responded Will heartily. “You are in fine shape, old 
man! My father says you have been a great help to 
him while I was away. He is a fine drill-master. A trifle 
strict, perhaps, but you are in a good school. It may be 
some weeks before I am on deck again. It is a comfort 
to- think you are here.” 

Dick reddened with pleasure. Never, in all their lives, 
had he been addressed in such frank, friendly fashion 
by the young man who was his superior in age and social 
standing, and habitually reserved to stiffness. 

With something of his mother’s quick intuition, he 
divined instantly that her fondness for Sarah Van Dyck 
had to do with the altered demeanour of his companion, 
and liked him none the less for it. 

“You are very kind to say it, Mr. Will. I shall try 
to deserve your good opinion.” 

Mr. Corlaer’s entrance put an end to the colloquy. 
He had made his morning round of the works and given 
orders to the foreman in each department. It was a prov- 
erb with underlings that his eyes and ears were every- 
where. 


A LONG LANE 


221 


“Leave the letters where they are!” he told Dick, who 
would have gathered them prior to leaving the room. 
“We shall be out of this by ten o’clock. Then you can 
have the office for the day. Take your memorandum- 
book over to Horner. He has a list of orders you will 
have to attend to. My horse will be brought down at ten, 
sharp.” 

A wave of the peremptory hand dismissed the clerk. 
On the way out he cast a grateful look at Will. It was 
acknowledged as mutely. 

“I would not forget that little talk for any money that 
could be offered me 1” Dick said to his mother, that night. 
“It was like making acquaintance with a man who had 
always worn a mask until that minute.” 

“The boy promises well — doesn’t he?” Will asked as 
the door closed. “You have done wonders for him, 
sir.” 

“I had fair material to work upon. Sit down I About 
once in five hundred times, a fellow who is dragged out 
of the mud turns out to be worth the pains you have 
taken with him. Dick Walker seems likely — so far — to 
be the one man. Time will prove. 

“Now — I am ready to hear what you have to say.” 

He was not harsh. He was in an ungenial, perfunc- 
tory mood. And, although the son knew there was no in- 
vidious meaning in the allusion to heredity, it was not a 
propitious preface to the subject-matter of the inter- 
view. 

His chair and position in the room chanced to be the 
same Norman Lang had occupied during the memorable 
interview that had changed the complexion of two lives, 
six months ago. The son did not know it, and the father 
did not give the coincidence a thought. While they 
talked, the wintry landscape obtruded itself upon Will’s 


. 222 


A LONG LANE 


consciousness, from time to time, with mysterious perti- 
nacity. There was a glare of ice where the waters had 
spread themselves thinly over the big boulder dividing 
them. Beyond, the solemn hemlocks pointed spires sky- 
ward that were black against the pale-blue; the road 
wound between leafless groves and bare fields ; the roar 
of the falls kept time with the thunder of machinery. 
The day was windless, and the dry air brought sounds 
from without clearly to the ears of the two. Sometimes 
they raised their voices involuntarily to be heard the 
better. 

“I must ask first, sir, that you will promise to listen 
patiently. It is a personal matter I wish to speak of. 
One that concerns myself — and one other person.” 

It was not the preamble he had thought out in the mid- 
night watches, and rehearsed a dozen times that morn- 
ing — one that should propitiate and also prepare the 
judge. Recognizing his failure, he plunged, and desper- 
ately. 

“Father, I am engaged to be married to Sarah Van 
Dyck!” 

A horrible silence ensued. Silence, but for the roar of 
furnaces, the boom of the falls, and the beat of trip- 
hammers. No iron they could pound into shape, no steel 
that could be annealed by intensest heat, was harder than 
the visage growing implacable under the pleader’s eyes. 

The accent rang like steel. 

“Father! Don’t decide against us without thinking 
it over !” burst forth the boy, thinking no more of choos- 
ing phrases. “I have tried to give it all up. I can't! 
She is the only woman I have ever loved. For years I 
have worked and worked to make her return my love. 
She knew how you felt toward her, and she would not 
listen to me. When I heard of the trouble that had come 


A LONG LANE 


223' 

to her, I hurried home, to try to comfort her. I have 
forced from her the confession — (she was too weak and 
broken-hearted to hold it back any longer) — that she 
is willing to marry me when you and my mother give your 
consent.” 

A sardonic gleam like the flicker over white-hot steel 
played across the listener’s face. 

‘‘You expect me to believe that, if we do not consent, 
she will let you go? When you began this talk by say- 
ing you are engaged to be married! Make your two 
stories hold together better 1 You should know — dull- 
witted as I find you sometimes — that the circumstances 
which made your marriage with this — ^young person! 
highly objectionable in the eyes of your parents, before 
recent developments that have lowered her and her fam- 
ily yet more in the estimation of respectable people — are 
as formidable a barrier as ever. The mother’s father was 
a puddler in your grandfather’s foundry. John Van 
Dyck is a pompous ass, who has made a little money by 
means of impetus given to real-estate values and the trade 
his father — a miller ! — taught him. He was too stingy, or 
too stupid, to do the only thing that could have raised 
his family in the sight of the community. Instead of 
educating his sons, he let them grow up with the least 
amount of mental training they could get from the pub- 
lic school. 

“They are clodhoppers ! nothing more or less. The 
mother, being ambitious for her daughter, sent her to 
boarding-school for a few terms, where she got a smatter- 
ing of accomplishments. Don’t interrupt me! You shall 
have your turn in good time. You comprehend as well 
as I do, that, but for the fact of John Van Dyck’s con- 
nection with the church to which we all belong, your 
family and his would never have met socially. They are 


224 


A LONG LANE 


our inferiors in every other respect. Yet you ask me 
to sanction your engagement to this — young woman ! 
You dare to expect that your mother — your mother T* 
the repetition was a snarl of disdain — “will receive her 
as a daughter; that your sisters will recognise her and 
introduce her as their brother’s wife to their friends! 
They will soon have homes of their own. They cannot 
invite you to them. 

“No! not a word yet! Sit down! and hear me out! 
I try to bear in mind that you are my only son. God 
help me! I have your interests at heart. Norman Lang 
is abroad upon business of which I told you. I will send 
you to join him, and have him prolong his stay in order 
to accompany you in the tour of Great Britain and the 
Continent. You may go to the East, if you will. I 
wish you to have every advantage that travel, and change 
of habits and place, can give you. When you return — 
cured! I will take you into partnership. If you marry 
a person of your own rank and breeding, you will inherit 
the homestead at my death, with a fortune that will en- 
able you to keep it up and maintain the honour of the old 
name in the region where it has never been disgraced as 
you propose to disgrace it now. 

“Stop ! Hear the other side of the case. If you per- 
sist in this mad notion, neither your mother nor I will 
ever willingly meet you again. I shall leave all I pos- 
sess to your sisters — ^when your mother and I are no 
more. From the hour of your marriage with Sarah Van 
Dyck, you cease to be my son. I will save you from your- 
self if I can !” 

The son was on his feet, his clenched fists brandished, 
as at an invisible ApoUyon ; his face was black with fury. 
When he strove to speak, flecks of foam actually stood 
at the corners of his lips. 


A LONG LANE 


225 


“Take your time !” said the father, quietly. 

A pitcher of water stood upon the desk. He poured 
some into the glass and held it to the convulsed mouth. 

“You will make yourself ill! Drink it!” 

The matter-of-fact tone and action wrought unex- 
pectedly upon the frantic youth. He knocked the glass 
from the father’s hand, and sat down, apparently com- 
posed, pointing to the chair from which the other had 
risen. 

“And do you sit down! It is my turn, now!” The 
voice was not his, but he articulated distinctly, only 
putting his hand once in a while to his throat where some- 
thing rose and fell curiously. 

“You have insulted me in every way you could think 
of. You have dared to imagine that I would sell my 
heart and soul and my honour — yes, I mean it! I have 
honour, and I know what I owe to it! You pretend to 
think I don’t know what the word means. I might for- 
give that, but I will never, in time or in eternity, forgive 
you for slandering a woman who is as far above your 
daughters as the heavens are above the earth. One 
daughter, who would have brought shame upon the fam- 
ily you think so much of, if it had not been for an aunt of 
the girl you slander. Another daughter, who laid her- 
self out to catch the school-master Sarah Van Dyck 
would not wipe her feet on! She could have had him 
twenty times over if she had wanted him. So much for 
your damned family pride ! You will turn me out-of- 
doors if I marry the woman I love — ^will you.^ We will 
have enough to keep us out of the poor-house if you do. 
I have my own money, and I can make a living without 
your help. 

“Now, let this be the end of it! I told you, in the be- 
ginning of our talk, that I had made up my mind to 


226 


A LONG LANE 


marry the girl I love. You have made my determination 
stronger with every word you have spoken. 

“I shall go to her at once, and try to persuade her to 
marry me to-day. Good morning! I won’t waste more 
of your precious time in a useless dispute. And when I 
say ‘Good morning!’ it will, according to what you have 
said, be ‘Good-bye’ for all time !” 

One long step put his father in his way when he moved 
toward the door. Mr. Corlaer’s complexion had the 
greyish whiteness of zinc; his mouth was a tense line; 
his eyes were pitiless. The grip upon his son’s arm was 
that of a vise. 

“You are raving!” he uttered slowly. “I will give 
you time to collect your senses. Do you sit there, and 
think coolly for twenty minutes — ” he glanced at the 
clock — “of what we have been discussing. I have a letter 
to write before I go. If, at the end of the time, you have 
seen no reason to change your mind, I promise you to 
urge you no further.” 

Will writhed under the compelling hand. Habit was 
mighty, and he had been in leading strings to this man 
for twenty-eight years. He struggled — but feebly. 

“I am no child!” he began — 

“Then behave like a man!” 

Without a word, the son dropped into his chair. The 
father opened a desk on the other side of the room and 
began to write. The scratching of the pen — steady as 
the ticking of the clock above the writer’s head — made 
itself heard in the tortured ears of the unwilling listener. 
Resting his chin in his cupped palms, his elbows upon the 
table, he tried to rally his wits. 

It was the anguished suspense of the criminal while 
the judge thinks out the sentence. The fancy took hold 
of him for, perhaps, a quarter of the set time of waiting. 


A LONG LANE 


227 

Then the Dominie’s buggy, as well-known throughout the 
parish as the owner himself, passed between the miserable 
eyes and the waterfall. Mrs. de Baun was driving, and 
beside her sat Sarah Van Dyck. A torrent of emotions 
rushed over the young man’s soul. As if she had told 
him in so many words, he comprehended the lady’s mo- 
tive for appearing abroad, thus accompanied. Loyal, 
brave, loving friend ! She would lend the whole weight of 
her influence to change the tide of popular sentiment. She 
was Sarah’s champion, and to the death! The lover’s 
heart throbbed with mad exultation. New life coursed 
through his veins ; he sat upright, full-armed for the final 
battle. He took his hat from the table as his father 
shut the desk-top down, kicked his chair back, and arose, 
glancing at the clock. It was on the stroke of ten. Will 
had seen the hostler driving the blooded horse used for 
mountain-roads up and down the road to keep him warm, 
for the last five minutes. 

“Your horse and buggy are ready for you, sir!” he 
remarked, easily. He was actually smiling, and the fath- 
er’s wrath effervesced at the supposed insolence. 

“I hope you have found your senses, young man.?” 

“I have never lost them, sir, except when I let you 
think that I might change my mind. I will not detain 
you. Will you shake hands.?” 

This was insolence — unmistakable, and rank! With 
a snarl of rage the father seized the oflPender by the col- 
lar, shook him furiously back and forth, as he might a 
child, and, being the taller and stronger of the two, flung 
him into a corner and left him there. 

Dick Walker, watching from a window of the Works, 
waited ten minutes after his employer drove from his 
door up the turnpike, before returning to his office- 
tasks. He crossed the road leisurely, fumbling with the 


228 


A LONG LANE 


papers huddled together in his hand, stopping upon the 
door-step to inhale breaths of the sun-filled air. Then he 
went in, sweeping his hand lightly over dazzled eyes to 
adapt them to the comparative obscurity of the interior. 

And there, in the corner furthest from the entrance, 
lay Will Corlaer, still and senseless, the blood flowing from 
his mouth, and settling into a pool upon the floor. 


CHAPTER XXI 


M y soiree musicale last night was a Big Success !” 
Rhoda Brouwer had boasted at the breakfast-table. 
Pier father grinned. 

^^Thafs what you call it? Go on! I like to keep up 
with the new things. Maybe you wouldn’t mind putting 
it into English.” 

“It means ‘musical evening,’ father,” rejoined the 
daughter, dutifully. He liked to hear her air her French. 
He had risen to his present eminence by keeping pace 
with the march of improvement. He might be marking 
time now, but he was ever ready for a start. 

“The other name sounds better!” with a commenda- 
tory gesture. “I must practise it against the next blow- 
out. I suppose Will Corlaer wasn’t well enough to be on 
deck.?” 

Rhoda screamed with laughter. 

“He was on escort-duty! The funniest thing hap- 
pened at supper ! I was waiting until you were all at the 
table before I told it!’ 

It did not lose one grotesque feature under her ma- 
nipulation, and gained several. Timothy O. listened with 
increasing soberness. 

“Too bad! too bad!” he ejaculated at the close. “That 
woman will do mischief yet if she is not kept in. No per- 
son who hasn’t the command of his senses is harmless. 
The head-doctor in an Insane Asylum told me that once. 
I must drop Van Dyck a hint.” 

229 


230 


A LONG LANE 


‘‘Mrs. Van Dyck couldn’t spare her!” put in practical 
Ruth. “She is the most useful person in that house. I 
don’t believe she would ever hurt a fly. If a dog or 
cat is hurt or ailing, she is as tender as she would be to 
a sick baby. And she would lie down and die for Sarah. 
I* never saw such idolatry.” 

“She needs it all!” observed the maiden aunt at the 
head of the table. “Cynthia was telling me that that 
wretched Case has been seen in Millville lately, and that 
Jo Scheffelin is on the look-out for him. He swears he 
will shoot him at sight!” 

“Bah!” sneered her brother. “He couldn’t hit a barn- 
door when he’s sober, let alone when he has a ‘drunk’ 
on. Not but what the rascal deserves a load of buck- 
shot !” 

The entrance of the butler with a relay of hot buck- 
wheats checked the flow of scandal. The principle that 
it is not safe to discuss one’s neighbours in the presence 
of servants was adopted and acted upon in the house- 
hold, albeit, as we have seen, information gleaned through 
subordinates was not contraband. Rhoda’s appetite for 
a bit of racy gossip was as keen as that of the bourgeois 
villager whose daily meat and drink it was. It might, or 
it might not, have had weight in her plans for the fore- 
noon. As she put the case in the subsequent table-chat, 
it was expedient that some responsible person should 
drive to the Guard House to bring back a hamper of bor- 
rowed china which had been used in the collation suc- 
ceeding the soiree musicale. Anticipating an unusually 
large attendance, the Brouwers — always liberal — had 
contributed plates, saucers, and tumblers to accommo- 
date the overflow of revellers. She would take Cynthia 
along to lend a hand to Mrs. Walker in clearing up and 
setting to rights. 


A LONG LANE 


231 

She set off, then, in the roomy family coach at a quar- 
ter of ten, and was cordially welcomed by Patsey. 

“ ’Tain’t often that I grumble at a big day’s work,” 
said the janitress. “I always say ‘No loose-j’inted jobs 
for me !’ But when I came in here this mornin’ by sun-up, 
and saw the mess they left behind ’em over night, I stood 
in my tracks, and said out loud — ‘well, thereT ” 

“You’ve made a fine beginning!” replied Rhoda, af- 
fably. “I see you have all my china and glass clean and 
ready for packing. I’ll get that out of your way.” 

She prided herself, not without reason, upon her execu- 
tive ability and the sound common sense that conde- 
scended to women of low estate in the discharge of 
homely domestic duties. Falling to work, forthwith, 
upon the pile of china set aside at one end of the room, 
she ordered Cynthia to wash the dishes at the other. 

“Mrs. Walker will help me here!” 

The combined clatter of dish-pan and china-packing 
effectually covered the query, uttered close to Patsey ’s 
ear: 

“Is it true that Case Van Dyck is hanging about the 
neighbourhood 

Patsey shook a meaning head: 

“The Lord only knows ! I did hear that Tom Romeyn . 
had seen him in Millville, and that he slunk away, without 
speakin’ to him. But, law, dear! you can’t depend upon 
one-hundredth part of what you hear. I wish, for my 
part, that he wouldn’t ever show his face in these parts 
again ! Jo Scheffelin’s a dangerous customer when he 
gets mad, and he’s made threats. There’s more towels 
on the line over there, Cynthia ! I washed all I could lay 
hands on yesterday, knowin’ we would need a lot.” Sink- 
ing her voice, she took up the broken thread: “Some 
things are past findin’ out. I can’t see, for the life o’ me. 


232 


A LONG LANE 


why pc^r-ents should be made to suffer for their children’s 
faults. It’s like readin’ the Commandments backward — 
this visitin’ the sins of the children upon the fathers. 
Shan’t I lift that to the carriage.?” 

Rhoda restrained her: “No! Cicero will drive up and 
down until I call him. There’s no hurry I I told you to 
take home what provisions were left. Did you?” 

“You may be sure I did, Miss Rhoda, and I was thank- 
ful to be saved the trouble of doin’ much cookin’ to-day. 
Dick and me breakfasted upon sandwiches, and there’s 
plenty for supper, to say nothin’ of cake and biscuits. 
Don’t seem right, though, for me to have so much when 
there’s maybe some that go hungry every day.” 

“Don’t distress yourself to look for them. The left- 
overs are your perquisites, and we would all rather you 
had them than some worthless loafer. Was there enough 
chocolate ?” 

“An’ a potful left over! I heated it up for breakfast, 
seein’ it wouldn’t be good for next month.” 

Rhoda laughed good-humouredly. “If it could have 
been kept over, you would have done it. You are the 
most economical woman I ever saw. Ah, Cicero! I was 
about to call you! Take this out to the carriage!” 

The coloured coachman stood in the doorway, hat off 
and mouth open for a chance to interject his word. He 
panted it out now: 

“Yes, Miss Rhody ! but if you please, ma’am, Mr. Will 
Corlaer is awful sick down at the Works, and Dr. Ten 
Eyck, he stopped me as I was drivin’ ’long the road, and 
ast me if he mought be brought home in the carriage.” 

All three women were outside of the door and gazing 
down the turnpike before he finished speaking. It 
stretched straight to the ofiice, and they could see a 
crowd of operatives and other men about the door. 


A LONG LANE 


233 

‘‘Certainly ! You needn’t have waited to ask me !” 
answered the young mistress. “Drive back as fast as you 
can go, and bring the doctor, too!’ 

She turned to Patsey who had instinctively torn off 
her checked apron. Her rubicund complexion had faded 
to the sallowness of the dishcloth in her hand. 

“And they all went to the city this morning — didn’t 
they.?” Rhoda ejaculated, rapidly. “Carrie told me last 
night they were going. Mr. Corlaer went by a little 
while after I got here, on his way to the Forge, I sup- 
pose. 

^^You ought to go right over to the house! I will 
go with you. Cynthia! do you stay here and finish what 
you are doing. If I want you, I will send for you.” 

She was in her element. A sensation — a situation — 
and a chance to take the centre of the stage! 

With whirlwind rapidity and wondrously little bustle 
she got herself and Patsey into the Corlaer house, ap- 
pointed to the terrified servants their respective tasks in 
the preparation for the injured man, and helped Patsey 
re-make the bed in which he should be laid as soon as he 
arrived. 

So swift and well-concerted were her movements, and 
so deliberate the stages of removing Will into the car- 
riage, to be supported there by the doctor and Dick 
Walker, that she and her assistants were at the front 
gate in time to witness the approach of the sad little 
procession. The day was still; the carriage was driven 
very slowly, and not a word was spoken by the line of 
work-men and stragglers trailing behind it. The click 
of hoofs upon the frozen road, the rumble of wheels and 
the shuffle of a hundred feet had the rhythm of a funeral 
march; the distant thud of the trip-hammer rose and 
fell like the beat of a muffled drum. The most careless 


234 


A LONG LANE 


and the least imaginative spectator bowed in spirit before 
the solemnity of scene and moment. For a half-century 
to come, it would be the theme of stories that wrought 
traditions of the Valley into dramatic history. 

“They say as how Twas Dick Walker what sent for 
the doctor and stopped Mr. Brouwer’s carriage for to 
fetch him home!” 

The loud whisper from the group of servants reached 
Patsey’s ear. In the depth of her affliction (and it ex- 
ceeded the grief of any one else there) she resented the 
familiar use of her boy’s name. She turned upon the 
unwary whisperer and hissed back a retort: 

“If Mr. Walker has charge of matters, all will be done 
right! You may be sure of that!” 

Dick and the three men from the mill brought the in- 
animate figure into the house, the doctor bringing up the 
rear. Dick and his mother undressed Will after he was 
laid upon the opened bed. It was Rhoda who dispersed 
the waiting crowd, awhile later. Walking briskly down 
to the gate, she raised her hand, as from the rostrum: 

“My good friends ! will you kindly go away, now.^^ Mr. 
Corlaer is in a very dangerous state. He must be kept 
perfectly quiet. As soon as the doctor has examined him, 
word will be sent to the Works of his condition. I know 
you are anxious about him. I know, too, how much we 
all love him. That is why I am begging you to give him 
a chance to recover. Good-bye !” 

She sent a smile and a wave of the hand after the scat- 
tering throng. She had composed on the way down-stairs 
what should be said to them, and had played her part 
well. 

“I was born for emergencies!” she said at dinner, to 
her appreciative relatives. “I promised Patsey that I 
would go back late this afternoon, to be there when Mrs. 


A LONG LANE 


235 

Corker and the girls get home. They expected to take 
the train that stops at Millville at four-forty. The car- 
riage was left in town all day to meet them at the depot 
for that train. I saw Patsey dreaded to break the news 
to them, and I offered to do it.” 

‘‘You are braver than me!” rejoined her father. “I 
wouldn’t undertake the job for a farm with a hen on it. 
Corker told the men that he wouldn’t be home before ten 
o’clock. The moon will be up then. The Dominie will 
see to him! I talked with Ten Eyck this afternoon. He 
considers the boy in a very bad way. It’ll be a hard blow 
to Corker. That’s the disadvantage of having an only 
son.” 

Tone and countenance testified to his self-gratuktion 
upon having managed his succession more wisely. 

After all the thought and time bestowed by Rhoda 
upon the composition and rehearsal of the speech which 
was to soften to Mrs. Corker the tidings of her son’s mis- 
fortune, fate ordained that she should not be the medium 
through which the sorrowful truth percolated to the 
mother. 

Intent upon completing the day’s tasks so sadly in- 
terrupted, Dick Walker repaired to the office in mid-af- 
ternoon, and strove to concentrate his thoughts upon the 
letters to be copied into one of the bulky volumes that, 
in epistolary form, told the history of the Business from 
the day Wilhelmus Corker became the head. Not a let- 
ter pertaining to it, written in that office, was mailed be- 
fore it was carefully transferred to the big books. 

“When I am gone, you will find all that I have done — 
and tried to do — written down there in black-and-white,” 
he had told his son. 

Dick felt it to be an honour when he was trusted to 
handle the sacred pages. 


A LONG LANE 


236 

He had covered several pages with clerkly characters 
when a knock at the door prefaced the entrance of Dr. 
Ten Eyck and Mr. de Baun. The latter explained the 
intrusion in a few sentences. It was desirable that they 
should acquaint themselves thoroughly with all the cir- 
cumstances attendant upon Mr. Will Corlaer’s attack. 
It was not, in Dr. Ten Eyck’s opinion, a fainting-fit con- 
sequent upon a weakened condition caused by his recent 
illness. He must learn the particulars of the seizure so 
far as Dick knew them. 

The doctor spoke next. He was the tallest and thin- 
nest man in three townships. Straight as a lath, stand- 
ing six-feet-four in his stockings, he carried not one 
ounce of superfluous flesh. His bushy hair was iron- 
grey; he wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and never used 
a monosyllable when a polysyllable was available. His 
voice made up in rotundity what his figure lacked, and 
was set by nature to sesquipedalian measures. 

“Our estimable pastor has conveyed my desire in apt 
phraseology, my dear young friend,” he began. “Mr. 
Wilhelmus Corlaer, Junior’s condition is alarmingly pre- 
carious. The hemorrhage was caused, I apprehend, by 
the rupture of one of the minor blood-vessels in the re- 
gion of the pericardium. Or in the apex of the lungs. It 
is not in itself alarming except as it may be sympto- 
matic. A violent fall might have occasioned the rupture. 
Or a severe paroxysm of coughing. I discern no crepi- 
tation that would indicate weakness of the respiratory 
apparatus. I might opine that the unfortunate young 
gentleman had slipped upon the floor and brought his 
head into violent contact with the wall, causing con- 
cussion of the brain, did not his extreme emaciation and 
consequent loss of weight render the hypothesis com- 
paratively untenable. Still, it is sustained in part by 


A LONG LANE 


237 


the discovery of a contusion of moderate dimensions upon 
the left side of the cranium. Will you kindly state to 
us, Mr. Walker, the precise circumstances of your en- 
trance into the office, and indicate the exact position of 
the — ah! I would say young Mr. Corlaer.?” 

‘‘Tell us where he was lying, and how he lay!” Mr. 
de Baun could hold his peace no longer. “And how you 
happened to be the one to find him.?” 

The early twilight was not far off, but there was light 
enough from the window to show the youth’s grave, hon- 
est face. 

Misgivings as to ulterior motives the physician’s pro- 
lix address might have awakened in the mind of a more 
sophisticated hearer, found no lodgment there. Uncon- 
sciously, the Dominie heaved a mighty sigh. 

“I don’t wonder you feel bad. Dominie!” said innocent 
Dick. “I have been unstrung all day by it. Mr. Cor- 
laer had ordered me to copy some letters this forenoon. 
I was at work upon them when Mr. Will came in. He 
and I talked together for perhaps three minutes before 
Mr. Corlaer got here. He sent me over to the Works 
on an errand that kept me there for more than half-an- 
hour. Pie had told me he was going to the Forge at ten 
o’clock, and that I was to come back here when he had 
gone. I saw his horse and buggy drive up to the door, 
and he got in and drove up the road. Supposing Mr. 
Will would go away too, I waited for five minutes or so, 
before I came back to the office. I found Mr. Will lying 
over there, his head against the wall and the blood run- 
ning from his mouth. He lay upon his left side with one 
arm under him. I took hold of him and found he was in 
a fit of some kind. Then I ran over to the Works and 
told Jake Wills to run for you. It so happened that he 
had seen you go into the post-office a short time before. 


238 A LONG LANE 

and he got you at once. You gentlemen know what was 
done after that.” 

“You are positively assured in your own mind that 
no person entered the office subsequent to the departure 
of the senior Mr. Corlaer, and prior to your entrance.?” 

“Nobody could have got in without my seeing him. I 
was on the look-out at the window over there,” pointing 
to the building opposite. 

“And you are not aware that any individual enter- 
tained animosity against the injured gentleman.?” 

“I don’t believe he has an enemy in the world, doctor! 
Not in this part of it, certainly.” 

“May I inquire into the nature of the brief dialogue 
you say was held by you and him, anterior to the 
entrance of Mr. Corlaer, Senior.? Was it amicable.?” 

Dick smiled broadly. 

“Very friendly, sir. He was kind enough to say that 
his father liked my work, and I thanked him. We did 
not speak more than three or four sentences.” 

“He evinced no symptoms of iealousy at his father’s 
partiality.?” 

Dick’s smile was an irrepressible laugh. 

“Excuse me, doctor! but the idea is ridiculous. He 
was more pleasant than I had ever seen him before.” 

The Dominie clapped the lad upon the shoulder. 

“I am sure of it, my dear boy! And just as sure that 
you are a thoroughly good fellow. We thought it well — 
the doctor and I — to be able to answer any questions 
fools might ask about a matter that is perfectly simple 
to any reasonable man — or woman! You have done your 
duty throughout. I guarantee that you will continue to do 
it. I am thankful your mother has poor Will in charge. 
He couldn’t have a more skilful or tender nurse. Good 
day ! I hope we haven’t taken up too much of your time.?” 


CHAPTER XXII 


T here goes the long and the short of it!” said a 
village wag, when the Dominie and the doctor 
walked past the post-office. ‘‘Dominie de Baun isn’t, so 
to speak, a small man. Alongside of the doctor he makes 
you think of the church and the steeple.” 

“They are talkin’ very earnest!” was the observation 
of another lounger. “I see ’em come out of Corlaer’s 
office. Most likely, they’re goin’ over Will’s case. If he 
dies, I s’pose there’ll likely be a coroner’s jury.^” 

“The very thing I would avert!” the pastor was say- 
ing at that moment. “It is as clear as noon-day to you 
and to me, that young Walker is as innocent as either of 
us of any fault in the affair. It would be a positive grief 
to me were a breath of suspicion directed toward him. 
Pie is doing his bravest to live down the odium cast upon 
him by a single misdeed. As Christian men, you and I 
should help him in the fight. If Will Corlaer came to 
hurt by the hand of any man, it was not he. He told 
the story like the honest fellow I know him to be. I 
have had my eye upon him for a year, and I know what 
I am talking of. With the evidence before us, I suggest, 
my dear doctor, that we keep our own counsel, and shut 
out Dick Walker from mind and speech in connection 
with the accident. A whisper implicating him, however 
remotely, with it, would be absolute ruin — absolute ruin, 
sir! and to an innocent man. 

“Your examination was thorough, and allow me to say, 
239 


240 


A LONG LANE 


my dear friend, most tactfully conducted. He had no 
inkling of your object in questioning him. Another 
man might have bungled the case and brought grievous 
trouble upon the guiltless boy and his worthy mother.” 

The Dominie could be impressive when put upon his 
mettle. He could likewise be diplomatically artful — in 
a righteous cause. 

Left to himself, Dick devoted two minutes to specula- 
tion upon what he regarded as superfluous anxiety on 
the part of his late visitors to secure details that could 
have no bearing upon the illness of a man newly-recovered 
from typhoid and worn-out by travel. Will Corlaer 
was always rather a weakly fellow, and he had miscal- 
culated his strength. But Dr. Ten Eyck, capital doc- 
tor as he was, had always a touch of “Fuss-and-feathers” 
about him. 

The clerk chuckled in returning to the letters and the 
big book. It was growing dark. He lighted the lamp 
hanging over the desk, and fell diligently to work. 

The twilight without was thickening into gloom when 
the door at his back flew open, and Carrie Corlaer’s shrill 
voice called — 

“Daddykin! Will! Oh, it’s your The change of 
intonation was ludicrously abrupt. “Where are 
they ?” 

Dick was on his feet — respectful to the daughter of 
his employer, but not a whit daunted by the imperious 
damsel. 

“Mr. Corlaer has not come back from the Forge. Mr. 
Will” — he hesitated, then took a sudden resolution — “Is 
Mrs. Corlaer out there motioning toward the open 
door. 

“Of course she is! Where else should she be.? We 
saw the light through the window (you ought to close 


A LONG LANE 


241 

the blinds!) and thought we’d take the one of them who 
happened to be here, home in the carriage. 

“Mother! there’s nobody here but Dick Walker! 
Father hasn’t got back and Will — ^where did you say he 
is?” 

Dick was at the other side of the carriage. He spoke 
with grave respect to Mrs. Corlaer who sat upon the 
back seat. 

“I am sorry to tell you, madam, that Mr. Will was 
taken ill this morning in the office, and is still in bed. Dr. 
Ten Eyck has seen him, and my mother is with him. We 
hope it is nothing serious.” 

In her excitement Mrs. Corlaer laid her hand upon 
that resting upon the carriage door. 

“111! how did it happen? Who was with him? Are 
you sure it is not serious?” 

“He was alone in the office. Mr. Corlaer had left a 
little while before. I came in from the Works, and found 
him— quite ill!” 

He suppressed particulars. Enough had been said 
to prepare her for the truth. 

“A very odd story!” cried pert Carrie. “Drive on, 
Cicero ! We will know the truth when we get home.” 

Even Mrs. Corlaer had not presence of mind to thank 
him for trying to soften the shock. The carriage 
whirled away, leaving him standing in the road. 

“It will be bad enough as it is!” muttered he, shut- 
ting himself in with his tasks. “From the way that girl 
spoke you might have thought I was to blame for the 
bad news. It was none of my doing!” 

Which was precisely the conclusion at which Dominie 
and doctor had arrived an hour earlier. 

It was a stricken household to which Mr. de Baun 
paid a visit at nine o’clock. He had called on his way 


242 


A LONG LANE 


home to supper, and heard in what manner the news 
of her son’s illness was communicated to the mother. She 
was then so nearly her wonted self as to beg him to tell 
Dick how she appreciated the delicacy and feeling with 
which he had acted. 

“I am afraid I may have seemed ungracious,” she 
added. ‘‘But the shock and anxiety were severe.” 

She came down-stairs to receive him at the later visit. 
The stress of the past three hours had told upon her 
physically, but her demeanour was normally serene, and 
she was inclined to be hopeful of Will’s ultimate re- 
covery. He had fever and had not recovered full con- 
sciousness. 

“But I am sure he recognised me when I spoke to him. 
He put up his lips to kiss me, and murmured some- 
thing. Patsey Walker tells me it was the first sign of 
intelligence he has showed since he was brought in. 

“I am very grateful to you for offering to meet his 
father when he gets home. This will be a terrible blow 
to him. They have enjoyed one another’s society lately 
more than ever before. You have assured me often that 
they would understand each other, as time went on.” 
She faltered and forced down rising emotion. “I thank 
God that it has come to pass. I have never confessed 
to you or to your wife, who is my dearest friend, the 
agony of my desire that the two whom I loved more than 
all the world beside, should be in entire sympathy — the 
father and son. Both are so noble — so altogether 
worthy — that they must, in time, be as intimate as I 
wish. 

“Did Mr. Corlaer tell you how well Will transacted 
the business that took him away.? It made me blissfully 
happy to see how proud he is of his son.” 

The pastor let her run on in this strain until the full 


A LONG LANE 


243 


heart was unburdened. She had never spoken so freely 
until now of the anguish that wrung the faithful heart 
at the reserve of the son toward his father, and the harsh 
judgment of the father of his only boy. The crucial 
hour of a common sorrow had unclosed the fountain 
sealed heretofore by loyalty to her best-beloved. The 
king — and the prince — could do no wrong. 

Edward de Baun’s wife sometimes called him ‘‘Bar- 
nabas” — the Son of Consolation. He demonstrated his 
right to the title now by gently leading his patient on 
to talk of her boy’s affection for her, his exemplary con- 
duct in college and in business-life; the kind acts and 
words that won him the affection of certain “mountain- 
families,” who had told the pastor of benefactions Will 
had never confided to his mother. As to the temporary 
misunderstanding between him and the father, nothing 
was more common. It was a proverb that fathers were 
intolerant of their sons’ foibles and indulgent to their 
daughters’ faults. 

“My own father and I were never comrades until I 
was out of college, and old enough to enter into the feel- 
ings of a full-grown man” — he was saying when the 
tramp of hasty feet upon the veranda heralded the mas- 
ter’s return. 

Again the well-concerted scheme that would have led 
up gradually to the revelation of the disaster had been 
frustrated by apparent accident. 

Five miles from home, Mr. Corlaer was met by an of- 
ficious countryman, who halted him in the road and 
poured out the tale he had picked up at the village store, 
of the illness which had befallen the listener’s son and 
the fatal consequences predicted by the physician. 

Something of what the father had endured in the reck- 
less drive over those last five miles, was branded for life 


A LONG LANE 


244 

upon the haggard visage that met the startled eyes of 
wife and friend as the door flew open. 

‘‘Is he deadr^ 

Heedless of the loving arms cast about him and the 
wife’s disclaimer — “No, my darling! no!” he looked over 
her head at the pastor: 

“Tell me the truth! Tell me the worst! She would 
keep it from me! Have I killed him.?” 

The son of consolation deftly withdrew the crazed 
man from the clinging embrace, and held him fast by 
both shoulders: 

“Are you crazy, man.? He is alive, and, please God, 
may live for many years. Compose yourself, and you 
shall go up to see him. Just now you would scare him 
out of his wits. Mrs. Corlaer ! can he have a cup of cof- 
fee before he goes to Will’s room.? I don’t believe he 
has had his supper. I should like to have the fool that 
frightened him, here, for^ five minutes. My dear old 
friend! can’t you trust us to deal fairly with you?” 

He got the limp figure into an arm-chair, and left 
him with his wife, going off himself to order the coffee. 

He took so long to get it that Mr. Corlaer arose to 
take the cup from him with a gallant attempt at a 
smile. 

“There’s not another man like you! I am ashamed of 
my behaviour. But that fellow was positive !” 

“Swallow it ! and forget him !” commanded the Dominie. 
“I have notified Patsey that she is to have a visitor. 
The boy is sleeping now. You may take a peep at him. 
Then, leave him to her. I’ll say ‘Good night,’ now that 
you are here to run things. I’ll be in again in the morn- 
ing if you’ll let me. Send for me at any time, day or 
night, if I can be of use to any of you ! To any of you !” 

At half-past ten o’clock Mrs. de Baun had gone to 


A LONG LANE 


245 

her room, and the Dominie, avowing himself “too much 
excited by the day’s happenings to think of sleep for 
two hours to come,” — had sought a nervine in pipe and 
“Pendennis,” in his quiet study. Rebecca Jane had 
been “visiting with” a crony since the meeting was over. 
It could not be reasonably expected, in view of the afore- 
mentioned “happenings,” that the conference of public- 
spirited women should be adjourned sine die^ at the 
usual hour. The hands of the kitchen-clock scandalised 
the serving-woman by pointing to eleven, minus five min- 
utes, while she was giving the test-punch of the fist to 
the batch of bread set for the night. In kneading she 
had sung and hummed by turns to the tune of Sherman: 

“O, where shall rest be found? 

Rest for the weary soul. 

’Twere vain the ocean’s depths to sound. 

Or pierce to either pole.” 

The lilt was subdued in force. The house was quiet 
and the Dominie was in his study. The hall-lamp burned 
still. She would extinguish it the last thing before going 
up-stairs. 

“The world can never give 
The bliss for which we sigh; 

’Tis not the whole of life to live. 

Nor all of death to die,” 

crooned the worker, fist in air, suspended for the trial- 
blow. 

The door-bell rang so sharply that the fist never fell. 

“Somebody’s sick — or something's happened!” ejacu- 
lated Rebecca Jane, and sped to the front door, wiping 
the flour from her fingers as she flew. 


A LONG LANE 


246 

Yet the ring was repeated before she got there. Draw- 
ing back the bolts in terrified haste, she was nearly 
knocked down by a man who stalked right onward. 

“I know Mr. de Baun is in. I saw the light in the 
study !” 

He was upon the second landing in saying it, and not 
until then did she see that it was Mr. Corlaer. 

“For the love of goodness!” gasped the mulatto, star- 
ing after him. 

“Now, I know there’s something awful the matter!” 

The same thought was uppermost in the master’s 
mind, as he answered the knock upon the study-door. 
Surprise made way for alarm at sight of the face dis- 
figured almost beyond recognition. 

“Mr. Corlaer! what has happened.?” 

The intruder threw himself into a chair, dropped his 
head upon the arms outstretched in abandonment of woe 
upon the table, and groaned: 

“He is worse ! he will die ! I am a murderer !” 

In a lightning flash, the pastor recalled the agony of 
the cry — “Have I killed him.?” that had rent his ears 
earlier in the evening. As swift was the recollection of 
the interview between father and son of which Dick 
Walker had spoken. And the doctor’s talk of the con- 
tusion on the head, and his conviction that a mere fall, 
caused by a misstep, would not have stunned and bruised 
one so slight of weight! 

For a second his stout heart was faint with deadly 
sickness. 

“God of mercy! have pity upon this man!” 

The cry was a De profundis, and escaped him invol- 
untarily. 

The room was without other sound for a long minute 
except for the broken breaths that convulsed the form 


A LONG LANE 


247 

bowed upon the table — the tearless, terrible weeping of 
a strong man — disarmed ! 

Then, Edward de Baun sat down beside his friend, 
put his arm about him, and bent to his ear: 

‘‘Mr. Corlaer ! try to think and to speak coherently 
for a moment. I would help you if I could. God can, 
and He will grant grace for the hour of need. How do 
you know that Will is worse 

The changed face was raised to his. The father wet 
the dry lips with his tongue before he could frame a 
word. 

“Ten Eyck is there. He will stay all night. The fever 
is high. He is delirious. Ten Eyck gives little hope. 
I know there is none!” 

“Neither he nor you can foretell the end. The boy 
is young, and he would wish to live.” 

He felt the poverty of the attempt at consolation 
before he was interrupted by a despairing gesture: 

"'Don't! It is worse than thrown away. I deserve 
all that is coming upon me. We quarrelled. I was vio- 
lent. I shook him and threw him down. He was lying 
there when I left him. I did not know he was hurt 1” 

The grey head fell again upon the outstretched arms. 

Dead stillness reigned throughout the study, so pro- 
found and, to the pastor’s imagination, so fraught with 
meaning, that he started when a log burned asunder and 
the brands tumbled over upon the hearth. He picked 
them up with the tongs and readjusted them, before re- 
plying to the confession. He was not stern in tone and 
bearing. He was quietly judicial, and the changed man- 
ner arrested the other’s attention. 

“When you are calmer, we will talk of the various 
points of your statement. I incline to the opinion that, 
in your agitation, you exaggerate your fault in the case 


A LONG LANE 


248 

you speak of. But that can wait. One thing cannot be 
ignored. Mrs. Corlaer must never — I would emphasize 
what I say — Mrs. Corlaer must never, under any cir- 
cumstances, get so much as an inkling of the possibility 
that other than natural causes led to your son’s illness ! 
It would be the foulest wrong you could do her!” 

The man before him looked up. The pastor inter- 
cepted the words quivering upon his tongue. 

“I mean just what I say! To suspect it would kill 
her ! You will acknowledge this when you regain compos- 
ure. As you will — when the shock has passed. Keep 
that one thought in mind, and let other things take their 
course. Whatever happens, your first duty is to the 
mother! 

“You say Ten Eyck will stay aU night at your house.? 
If you will allow me, I will get my hat and overcoat, and 
walk along with you. I am afraid you may have caused 
unnecessary alarm to Mrs. Corlaer by rushing off as 
you did.” 

The judicial tone was rebukeful. It acted upon the 
culprit as a dash of cold water in the face. Stammer- 
ing something that may have been contritely apologetic, 
he followed the rapid steps that paused at Mrs. de Baun’s 
door. There the Dominie turned his head to say — 

“Wait for me down-stairs, please! I will be with 
you in a second!” 

The hall-clock had not ticked away a minute when he 
joined Mr. Corlaer, and the two took their rapid way 
down the road. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


W ILL CORLAER never recovered consciousness. 

He died upon the third day after Dick Walker 
found him upon the office-floor, the life-blood trickling 
from his lips. 

The first, and one of the heaviest snows of a hard win- 
ter, had to be shovelled away from the door of the family 
vault on the day of the funeral, but the countryside 
turned out in force to fill the church whence four gener- 
ations of his forefathers had been borne to their burial. 
His mother was unable to leave her bed. The father 
looked and moved like a man of eighty, in walking up the 
aisle, a black-robed daughter clinging to his arm. The 
service over, he gazed with glazed eyes, straight before 
him, as in a dream. At the grave his demeanour was the 
same. He spoke to no one even when Carrie wept aloud 
and hysterically, and would have sunk to the ground but 
for the enfolding arm of her betrothed. It was already 
apparent to sympathising friends that she felt herself to 
be especially ill-treated by fate in the catastrophe which 
had overtaken the prosperous household. Her wedding 
must be postponed, and she had ordered a thousand 
dollars’ worth of trousseau! It was furthermore bruited 
abroad that Margarita was congratulated by her sister 
upon her better part. 

“Having to go into mourning means very little to her,” 
she had confided to Patsey, within hearing of her maid. 
“She will be ready for black-and-white by the time her 

249 


250 


A LONG LANE 


wedding-daj is fixed. But six of my dresses are actually 
in the dressmaker’s hands ! Misfortunes never come 
singly.” 

Patsey respected herself and “the family” too sincerely 
to repeat the speech, even to her Dick. Somehow it took 
wing, and had a flight that might have been longer had 
not the wind been taken out of it by more dignified gos- 
sip. 

Mr. de Baun, like the true and honourable shepherd of 
erring souls that he was, had never intimated by word, 
look or significant reticence to his chief confidante and 
the keeper of the archives of his heart, the purport of 
the communication made to him in the study that No- 
vember night. Rebecca Jane’s self-sustained reputa- 
tion for discretion put the thought of eavesdropping be- 
yond the reach of malignant insinuation. Yet the rumour 
that Will Corlaer had come to his end, and at his fath- 
er’s hand, by violent means, crept through the Valley 
within a week after the vault closed upon him. Then it 
gathered strength and flew fast, far and wide. A mys- 
tery is to the scandal-monger like the scent of carrion 
to the vulture. But for the united front opposed to the 
evil birds — - 

“gathering flock-wise” — 

by the Dominie and attendant physician, the foul story 
must have reached the sorrowful household. That it was 
not done was largely owing to the solid front indicated 
just now, partly to the respect in which the father was 
held in county and state, and chiefly — since the truth 
is not to be boggled in this veracious chronicle — to the 
expulsive power of a new and mightier scandal broached 
a month thereafter. 

I condense the supposed tragedy: 


A LONG LANE 


251 

Mention was made, some pages back, of a shadowy 
tale of the reappearance in Millville of one of the prin- 
cipals in the elopement which was the opening chapter 
in the series of soul-and-tongue-stirring events which 
made that winter of the early fifties forever memorable 
in the history of Kinapeg township. The rumor took 
substance when a respectable denizen of the Valley jog- 
ging along the turnpike connecting the manufacturing 
town and a smaller settlement “over the mountain,” 
passed a slouching figure that, as the witness averred, 
“took to the woods” when he hailed him by name. The 
farmer recollected instantly that he had overtaken, a 
hundred yards or so back, the man whom Case Van 
Dyck had robbed of his wife, last summer. He, too, 
slunk out of the highway when the passer-by looked hard 
at him. 

“I’ll bet my hat he’s on his track!” the farmer told 
his wife when he got home. “There’ll be a rumpus if 
he overtakes him.” 

Hearing nothing of such an encounter in the next 
fortnight, he dismissed the incident from his mind. 

This was some days before Will Corlaer’s death. In 
Christmas-week, some boys, hunting rabbits in the snow,, 
happened upon the skeleton of a man upon a hill-top six 
miles from Kinapeg. The snow had been blown away 
from the bare rock in the wild storm that filled the ra- 
vines with swirling drifts ; crows and wild cats had de- 
nuded the bones of flesh wherever it was not protected 
by clothing. Even this had been torn away in many 
places by teeth and claws. The boys fled precipitately 
down the mountain and reported the discovery. A 
party of men sought the wretched wreck of a human 
creature and carried it down to “the store.” There it 
lay under a tattered horse-blanket until Dr. Ten Eyck, 


252 


A LONG LANE 


the county coroner, summoned a jury to sit upon it. 
The remains were voted to be those of ‘^an unknown man 
who came to his end by means unknown to the jury. He 
may have been murdered by some person, or persons un- 
known. He may have perished from exposure to the 
fierce storm of December first and second.” 

When the undertaker, engaged by the county authori- 
ties to get the loathly thing out of sight, examined the 
rags left upon it, he found a handkerchief in the pocket. 
It was tattered and stained, except at one corner which 
was dingy white, and bore initials worked in black silk. 

“C. V. D.” read the official to his assistant, holding the 
remnant with disdainful thumb and finger. ‘‘Who mought 
that be ^ 

His wife was peeping in at the door, and now showed 
herself. 

“It stands for ‘Case Van Dyck’ all right!” she as- 
serted, excitedly. “I’ll wash it — though I hate the job! 
and take it up to the Van Dycks’ right away! They’ll 
most likely want him put in their Section.” 

Her expectation was not fulfilled. The letters on 
the scrap of linen certainly resembled those wrought by 
Sauchy, two Christmasses agone, for her eldest nephew. 
Sarah grew white and sick at sight of them, yet wished 
to show the relic to her aunt for identification. Her 
mother put /down the proposition with old-time energy. 

“There isn’t one chance in ten thousand that it’s the 
same, and she wouldn’t know it as it looks now, if so be 
it was. And for all we know, if it was — hisl — it might 
have been lost or stolen. I won’t listen to no such yarn 
as that what was found up there on the mountain was 
anybody belonging to me or mine. ‘Go to see it.?’ What 
do you take me, or my husband for.? No such shameful 
scandal was ever heard of in either of our families. 


A LONG LANE 


253 


Wherever that wicked woman has taken my son, even she 
couldn’t make him a tramp. What should he be doin’ 
over there on the rocks in the cold, and he knowin’ he 
could find bed and fire and victuals in his father’s house, 
providin’ he come back alone. Take the dirty rag away ! 
It’s an insult to fetch it to us !” 

The author of the insult took back the fragment and 
a tale that befitted the ‘‘remains.” By night, half of 
the Kinapeg population was morally sure that the skele- 
ton was that of the runaway. When the story flew to 
the farmer who had seen the two men in the road, there 
was as little doubt that judgment in the form of Jo 
Schelfelin had overtaken the sinner. 

The huddle of bones was laid away decently in the ob- 
scure corner of the churchyard belonging to the town- 
ship, and Mr. de Baun, standing ankle-deep in the dirty 
snow thrown up by mattock and spade, read of the Resur- 
rection and the Life, in the hearing of the motley crew 
attracted by vulgar curiosity to the dishonoured spot. 
He added a prayer for “those connected with the de- 
ceased by blood or affection.” 

“Be merciful to them. Our Father! Thou hast abund- 
ant compassion for the erring and the sorrowful. We 
are Thy children, dear Lord! Heal the broken heart, 
if there be one that is bereaved by the death of this, 
our unknown brother. And for the sake of Thy dear 
Son, forgive us our manifold trespasses, for we also for- 
give the trespasses of others. Amen!” 

Jo Scheffelin, when sought for, lay dead-drunk in 
the house his wife had made desolate. He had not drawn 
a sober breath for a month, said his neighbours. There 
being absolutely not a straw of evidence to convict him of 
the murder, — if indeed violence were done upon the un- 
identified corpse, — he was not arrested or molested in 


254 A LONG LANE 

any way. He drank himself out of the world before 
spring. 

“We need to establish but two things — Motive and 
Opportunity — to enable us to run down the guilty par- 
ties !” quoth a professional biped sleuth, after listening 
to my story of that benighted period. “Here, we have 
both. Added to these, was the evidence of one who saw 
the parties in suspicious proximity to one another — the 
hunted and the pursuer. The case might go before a 
jury without any other testimony.” 

The Kinapeg authorities were purblind and thick- 
headed, judged by our standards. They proved them- 
selves adepts in collecting and weighing testimony which 
satisfied ninety-nine out of a hundred as to the identity 
of the remains interred at the public expense, and the 
guilt of the wronged husband. If guilt it were? de- 
bated moralists, who yet lived fifty years before “the un- 
written law” was heard of by that name. Vague rumours 
drifted into the Valley intermittently, for several years, 
of the place and doings of the village Delilah. It was 
pretty well established at length, that she had robbed 
her rustic lover of the money filched from his father, and 
abandoned him for a city lover, sinking finally into the 
foulest depths a woman can reach. 

There was no social stagnation in the hill-girt village 
that season. It was positively metropolitan in the num- 
ber and telling features of sensations vouchsafed by 
Providence to the winter-bound population. February 
was not a week old when the devoted Van Dyck family 
supplied yet another. 

One windy night, the mill caught fire and burned to 
the ground. It could do nothing less, the flames having 
originated upon the first floor and gained the second be- 
fore Sauchy, who was a light sleeper, seeing the red re- 


A LONG LANE 


255 


flection upon the ceiling of her room, gave the alarm. 
Mrs. Van Dyck and her stalwart sister-in-law carried 
buckets of water from the well down the hill until they 
were driven back by men who had hurried from all quar- 
ters to aid in the task they felt was hopeless from the 
outset. The mill had been idle for a month, and the 
pond above the dam was frozen a foot deep. “Mr. Van 
Dyck had lost his ambition,” was the verdict of con- 
geners. Case was his right hand in all pertaining to 
the mill, and neither of the two sons left to him cared to 
learn the trade. The father had recovered from the 
numbness of limbs and tongue left by the “stroke,” 
but never regained his pristine energy. The wife was the 
head of the household, and Sauchy the hands. When, 
therefore, the exposure and wetting of that disastrous 
night laid Mrs. Van Dyck low with inflammatory rheu- 
matism, she was more intolerant than ever of Sarah’s 
apathetic ways and listless discharge of the heavier du- 
ties cast upon her by the mother’s illness. 

“She hasn’t been one bit like herself since Will Cor- 
laer died !” the bed-fast matron bemoaned herself one day 
to her pastor’s wife who was making a neighbourly call. 
‘Tier what used to be so even-tempered and cheerful, day 
in and day out, singin’ about her work and runnin’ to 
the piano every spare minute to try this or that tune ! 
‘Seems-if she thought in music’ — as Mr. Lang said 
once to me when he heard her warblin’ like a bird upstairs 
when she was makin’ the beds. She ain’t the same girl, 
and I mistrust she never will be again. I don’t mind tellin’ 
you what’s been her best friend so long and was so fond 
of himy that her heart’s in that poor boy’s grave. Not 
that she’s let on a word about it. It went too deep for 
that. She was never one to talk about her feelin’s. But 
a mother can see things other folks can’t. I am as sure, 


A LONG LANE 


256 

as if I had been told by both of them, that they would 
have been man-and-wife by now, if he had lived — ^poor 
dear! I put it right at her not a week after he was bur- 
ied, and she run off to her room with never a word, and 
locked herself in for the rest of the day. I spoke to 
Father about it, and he advised me to let her alone ’till 
such time as she was able to talk it out to me of her own 
accord. And obstinate! you wouldn’t think it of her, 
Mrs. de Baun, but she is downright heady! She took 
cold the night of the fire, and has had a cough ever since. 
I wanted her to see the doctor one time he was here to 
me, but she wouldn’t. ‘I’ve never had a doctor in my 
life, and I’m not goin’ to begin now,’ says she. ‘It’s 
nothin’ but a httle cold that will be gone when I’ve taken 
your cough-syrup for a few days,’ says she, more natural- 
like than I’d seen her in a long time.” 

From force of habit she picked up her knitting. To lie 
quiescent was a physical and mental impossibility. She 
knitted two pairs of stockings per week, the stiffened 
hands being incapable of any other occupation. 

“I’d go stark crazy if I had to lie here and think P’ 
she broke out, now in response to the visitor’s compliment 
to the exceeding smoothness of the web of fine lamb’s 
wool growing into shape under the knotted knuckles. 
“And such times as I have to think of! It isn’t a year 
ago that I said I wouldn’t ’change places with any livin’ 
human being. And nowT^ 

She tossed the ball spitefully toward the footboard. 

“Father, he will have it that it’s not right to say it! 
But it does seem as if Providence had a grudge against 
us, an’ was a-paying of it off!” 

^^Dear Mrs. Van Dyck!” 

The protest was cut short: 

“O, yes ! I know what you are goin’ to say ! But put 


A LONG LANE 


257 


it to yourself! First, there’s the misery that filthy crea- 
ture brought upon us. Then the death of the man what 
would have married my only daughter. And the wicked 
lies people believe about the bones they found on the 
mountain. And now the fire ! Father was tryin’ to show 
me yesterday there was somethin’ to be thankful for, be- 
cause he’ll get the insurance-money. Says I to him — 
‘John Van Dyck! all the money in the United States 
won’t give me back my boy, nor bring Will Corlaer to 
life, nor h’ist me out of this bed, nor stop folks from 
takin’ away the good name of a family what has never 
had a word spoken against it for a hundred years. I 
shouldn’t be a mite surprised to hear it said that you 
set the mill afire with your own hands for to get the in- 
surance-money, seein’ it was no good, now there’s no- 
body fit to run it.’ ” 

“My dear Mrs. Van Dyck !” The minister’s wife made 
another futile attempt to stem the tide. “Don’t distress 
yourself with imagining these horrible things. Mr. Van 
Dyck is too much honoured in the neighbourhood where he 
was born, and in which he has lived so long, for such a 
slander to be so much as hinted. Have faith in his friends 
and yours. Where is Sarah I seldom see her now-a- 
days.” 

“Mercy knows !” Like more intelligent church-mem- 
bers, the worthy woman piously abstained from taking 
the name of the Deity in vain, by substituting synonyms 
conveying the same idea without fracturing the Third 
Commandment. “S’like’s not, traipisin’ off in the fields 
or in the woods. ‘For exercise!’ she says. ’S’if she 
didn’t get all the exercise she needs in-doors ! She works 
hard — I’ll agree — but she puts no spirit into what she 
does. It makes me want to fly to see her moonin’, and 
lookin’ so peaked!” 


A LONG LANE 


258 

“Poor child! we must remember that she has had a 
great sorrow,” her best friend urged gently. “If you do 
not object, I will try to find her.” 

Without waiting for permission, she betook herself 
first, to the lower part of the house, wondering with ex- 
ceeding admiration in her progress from room to room, 
at the shining cleanliness of each when the mistress had 
been confined to her bed for a month. Sauchy and her 
niece must toil incessantly to keep the domestic machine 
in the perfect order the disabled woman would maintain 
were she up and about. Sauchy and the young “bound 
girl” were in the kitchen. The lady dallied in the com- 
fortable quarters to say a few pleasant words to them. 
Then she asked for Sarah. Jane, the apprentice, could 
tell her nothing. Sauchy, whose humour seemed to be in- 
clement, shook her head violently and affected not to 
understand the question. It was one of what her sister- 
in-law called her “provoking ways,” to feign stupidity 
when she chose to keep her own counsel. One thing was 
plain; the girl was not in the house, unless she were hid- 
ing purposely to avoid the visitor. 

Concealing her perturbation from the invalid, she left 
an affectionate message for the missing daughter. 

“I hope she is taking advantage of the fine day to get 
a long walk. The air is cold, but not sharp. It will 
do her good. Tell her she must give the Parsonage the 
benefit of her rambles. I have hardly seen her for weeks 
and weeks. And give her my dear love.” 

She saw no one on her way to the lower gate where 
she had left her carriage. The blackened timbers of 
the mill sprawled irregularly over the shrunken stream 
below the dam, showing a wide space of wintry sky the 
building had screened from view. To the pained observer 
the scene was forlornly unlovely — almost squalid. Mr. 


A LONG LANE 259 

Van Dyck and one of the sons had gone to the city “to 
see about the insurance-money,” the wife reported. But 
for the thin blue reek rising from two chimneys, the old 
homestead might have been deserted. Against will and 
reason, the pitiful plaint — ^“Seems-if-Providence had a 
grudge against us,” recurred to her. Had she been a 
Romanist she would have crossed herself to exorcise the 
blasphemous thought. As it was, she muttered to the 
bleak silence — “God forbid!” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


T he profane fancy was not wholly “downed” when 
Mrs. de Baun rang the bell at the Corlaers’ door. 
She had been there scores of times, since the summer day 
on which she paid, as now, a visit to the Van Dyck home 
and drove, next, to the mansion before her. She saw 
again the misery in Sarah’s eyes and the happiness in 
Carrie’s, the triumph in Margarita’s. 

Contrasts were less sharply defined to-day, but out- 
ward evidences of adversity and of prosperity were patent 
to a casual spectator. The French windows of the draw- 
ing-room were unshuttered, and rosy gleams of fire-light 
flickered through, mocking the pale sunshine. The de- 
ciduous shrubbery dotting the lawn was swathed in straw ; 
clumps and hedges of evergreens stood up, calmly con- 
fident of returning spring. In the distant stables men 
were singing and whistling; a flock of pigeons, blue and 
white, strutted and cooed over crumbs thrown from the 
kitchen-window. Not a picket was missing or loose in 
the fence surrounding the spacious grounds ; there was 
not a chip or stick upon the sere turf. The approving 
smile of Providence was over all. 

“And, yetr 

She had nearly said it aloud to the butler who startled 
her from reverie by throwing back the door with a flour- 
ish: 

“Good morning, ma’am ! Mrs. Corlaer, ma’am, saw you 
from the window, and would you mind, ma’am, going right 

260 


A LONG LANE 261 

up to her room? She has a cold, and finds it warmer up 
there than downstairs.” 

“The cold is a mere trifle,” explained his mistress, 
meeting her guest in the upper hall. “It is warmer here, 
but I wanted to have you to myself, and Carrie and Mar- 
garita are writing letters in the drawing-room.” 

She led her friend into the large light chamber look- 
ing toward the church. 

From Mrs. Corlaer’s chair one could see the bold swell 
of earth roofing Colonel John Corlaer’s vault. She laid 
a stick upon the fire and bade the visitor “draw up close 
to it and get warm.” 

“They tell me that it is rather mild to-day, but I have 
not found it out. I was wishing just now, that you would 
drop in. Mr. Corlaer was never more bound to the busi- 
ness-rack than he is now, and the girls are as busy in 
their way.” 

Mrs. de Baun smiled intelligence in glancing at the 
work the hostess took from the stand beside her. 

“They are fortunate in having a mother who can hem- 
stitch handkerchiefs by the dozen, and so beautifully! 
Those are for Carrie, I suppose?” 

“No! Margarita begged me to begin upon hers — as 
she says — ‘while my eyes hold out!’ I finished the third 
dozen for Carrie last Saturday. I find that my eyes are 
not so strong as they used to be. I cannot trust them 
upon fine sewing by artificial light. I am told that one 
can buy handkerchiefs already hemstitched in New York. 
The girls insist they cannot ‘nice !’ It would save mil- 
lions of stitches if they were.” 

“I wish you could be excused from doing such work,” 
Mrs. de Baun took the liberty due an old friend to re- 
mark. “Can’t the girls take that upon themselves and 
let you save your precious eyesight by doing plainer sew- 


262 


A LONG LANE 


ing? Flannel petticoats, for instance?” she appended, 
playfully “or perhaps they must be embroidered too?” 

“Every one of them! Not to mention chemise yokes 
and sleeves, and ruffles for petticoats and drawers — in 
fact, everything a woman is expected to wear for ten 
years to come.” 

Mrs. de Baun stared aghast : “Surely, you will not have 
to take a hand with all of them? Let me help — won’t 
you? I do love to do silk embroidery!” 

Mrs. Corlaer’s smile was loving and grateful. 

“That is like you! to pretend you enjoy lifting a bur- 
den from other shoulders ! But I am to do comparatively 
httle of the more elaborate needlework. Patsey Walker 
will be the richer for the two weddings. You know her 
skill with the needle. She is enchanted at the prospect 
of having her hands full for months to come. I am hardly 
more interested in my daughters’ preparations than she. 
The rest they must do themselves. It is fortunate that 
Patsey is so competent, and lives so near us.” 

“She is a good soul!” uttered Mrs. de Baun, earnestly. 
“And has had a hard life until now. I am thankful for 
her that the future promises so well. Mr. de Baun thinks 
that son of hers bids fair to do finely in the world. He 
deserves much credit for living down an ugly Past.” 

“Mr. Corlaer says the same. Dick has been more than 
a helper to him this winter. He is a comfort — shielding 
my husband from anything he thinks would annoy him, 
and, when he is not hindered, doing the work of two men 
in the office.” 

Her eyes were suffused with moisture, and hand and 
voice were less steady. The other hastened to change 
the subject. 

“We had a pleasant letter from Mr. Lang last week, 
written from Berhn. He tells us he hopes to sail for 


A LONG LANE 


263 

home in March. He appears to he making the most of 
his time. Everybody will be happy to have him back. 
His going left a big gap in all our lives. The new teacher 
is well enough, but there is only one Norman Lang.” 

“I will repeat that to Margarita. The separation has 
tried her spirits sorely. Mr. Adrain’s weekly visits make 
her feel more keenly the difference betwen the circum- 
stances of her engagement and her sister’s. Not that she 
is not in full sympathy with Carrie, and we all like 
George — but you can understand.?” 

“I do — entirely!” (As when, indeed, did she not.?) ‘Tt 
is pleasant to think the trial is so nearly over. Mr. de 
Baun and I speak often of what a blessing it is that both 
your girls have chosen so wisely and have such fair pros- 
pects of happiness.” 

“I am very thankful! So is their father. In time we 
may be able to rejoice more heartily in their happiness.” 
She paused to steady her voice. ‘T have thought much 
lately of a sermon Mr. de Baun preached for us five 
years ago, from the text — ‘O Lord! I know that Thou, 
in faithfulness, hast afflicted me !’ I try to stay my soul 
upon these words : — ‘In faithfulness F ” 

Through the flooring and the thick walls of three rooms, 
penetrated Margarita’s strident tones. Memory sup- 
plied the words when the listeners distinguished the 
melody : 

“ ’Twas thy voice, my gentle Mary, 

And thine artless, winning smile 
That made this world an Eden, 

My Mary of Argyle!” 

If one of the hearers was shocked, she was careful not 
to betray it. The mother read her thoughts in part: 

“You may think it strange she should sing that, and 


A LONG LANE 


264 

that she should have the heart to open the piano at all? 
I suppose some do! Indeed, it has been said to me that 
it is ‘not customary to have music in the house of mourn- 
ing!’ And that this must always be while his father 
and I live!” — breaking into vehemence her friend had 
never witnessed before. “Forgive me ! I would not 
say it to any other woman I know. But you un- 
derstand, as I said just now! It is not just or right 
to darken the lives of my daughters by the shadow that 
will never be lifted from mine. So, when Margarita told 
me that she was ‘afraid Norman would find her back- 
ward with her music, and how she had hoped to beguile 
her loneliness by practising the art he loves so dearly,’ I 
begged her not to regard the gossip of those who have 
no right to dictate what we shall do. She takes such 
comfort in practising and in singing songs that were 
favourites with them both, that I am repaid for the small 
sacrifice of my selfish notions.” 

“You are always right!” cried her more impulsive com- 
panion. “I don’t believe I could ever rise to your height 
of self-sacrifice, but I can appreciate it. That shows 
I am not utterly depraved! And Margarita is to be 
commended for trying to please the man she loves.” 

“Have you seen or heard of any of the Van Dycks 
lately?” was Mrs. Corlaer’s next query. 

“I have just come from there. Mrs. Van Dyck is still 
confined to her bed and suffering greatly at times. It 
is especially hard for one naturally so active to be help- 
less.” 

Mrs. Corlaer dropped her voice and glanced involun- 
tarily at the door: 

“I was sadly grieved to hear from Mr. Corlaer that 
there may be an investigation into the origin of the fire, 
before the Company in which the mill was insured will 


A LONG LANE 


265 

pay the money. It made me positively sick! He told 
me of the rumour last night, and I could not sleep for 
worrying over it. I should think that poor woman would 
be ready to cry out: "All Thy waves and Thy billows 
have gone over me 1’ I pray that this last stroke may he 
averted. My husband attaches no credit to the story, 
and is prepared to testify to the excellent character of 
the father. I am afraid the boys are made of different 
stuff.” 

“I do not believe either of the two would be guilty of 
such a crime,” rejoined her friend. 

She was white with heart-nausea. "T can’t bear to 
think that another blow will fall upon that family. I 
won*t believe it! Past record ouffht to go for some- 
thing!” 

“I agree with you, entirely! If only for the sake of 
the parents — and the sister, I trust that the story is 
a falsehood throughout.” 

She spoke with sincerity that emboldened the listener 
to play a card she had carried in her sleeve through 
weeks of weariful waiting: 

""You speak of the sister. I wish you could know what 
a lovely girl she is. I say "a girl,’ but she has developed 
into a noble woman. Don’t be displeased with me, dear- 
est of friends ! — but I have longed to break the reserve 
which has hindered us from talking of something lying 
very near to my heart, and, I believe, to yours. You 
know that our dear Will (he was like a younger brother 
to me) loved her. She would not acknowledge that she 
returned his love until assured that his parents approved 
of the engagement. That was the state of affairs when 
he went to California. He had not one line from her 
while he was away. I could see that she was breaking 
her heart over the separation, but the brave girl never 


266 


A LONG LANE 


breathed a word of her sufferings. Then he heard of the 
disgrace that had befallen her family, and hurried home 
to offer her the shelter of his love and his name 

“But you must know all this.^” 

The change that had come to the face before her had 
arrested the recital. 

A bluish pallor and a stiffening of the muscles, a glit- 
ter of the eyes that were, but now, soft and benignant, 
wrought a transformation that terrified the animated 
pleader. 

“Go on ! Let me hear it all !” 

The tone was as unfamiliar as the forbidding mask. 

“He promised me, that morning, that he would tell 
you everything before he spoke to his father. And again, 
that night, I reminded him of his promise. I cannot be- 
lieve you knew nothing of it !” 

“Have I said I know much, or how little I know? I 
have asked for the whole truth as you know it ! You speak 
of ‘that morning’ and ‘that night!’ When and where 
did he see and make a promise to you? Where did he 
meet lierV'" 

Mrs. de Baun was unnerved. Horrified and distressed, 
she blundered on: 

“She was visiting at the Parsonage. He called in the 
forenoon, and talked with her.” 

An imperious gesture halted her. 

“With your knowledge and consent?” 

If the preceding catechism had set her in the witness- 
box, the minister’s wife felt that she was now a criminal 
at the bar. 

“He had told me enough before he went to California 
to let me know his feeling for her. I was too sorry for 
both to try to keep them apart. All I could do was to 
stipulate that you should hear all.” 


A LONG LANE 267 

Mrs. Corlaer put her hand to her head. For the first 
time she appeared at a loss to grasp the truth. 

“And — ‘that — night’ she said, slowly, feeling after 
her thoughts. “That was when, in the kindness of his 
heart — as I thouglif^ — bitterly — “he took that poor 
crazy woman home ! I recollect now that he said they went 
by way of the Parsonage. And that your husband and 
he ‘took them home !’ He was in the conspiracy, too !” 

The wife was on her feet — erect and quivering — her 
spirit in arms. 

“You cannot use that word in connection with him! 
He is the soul of honour! Not one word ever passed be- 
tween him and your son with regard to this matter. I 
told him of it afterward. 1 was the confidante — the go- 
between — the ‘conspirator,’ as you call it ! I was so 
heartily in sympathy with your son and the only girl he 
ever loved — and whom he loved through good report and 
evil report, until death parted them — that I would have 
helped them to the utmost of my power, if my husband 
had forbidden me. Which, thank heaven! he did not! I 
would have come to you with the whole story and pleaded 
for them, if Will would have allowed it. He meant to 
bear the consequences of his act, himself. If he had lived, 
I have faith in the triumph of the Right to feel sure he 
would have won you over to his side !” 

She was crying now, but she could articulate to the 
end of her argument. As she finished, she buried her face 
in her handkerchief to stanch the tears she could not keep 
back. 

Silence so profound that it was awful to one of the 
twain reigned in the room. The fire crackled presently 
— tentatively — and a minute later, the voices of the sis- 
ters, muffled by distance and walls, joined in the duet Mrs. 
de Baun had heard from her seat under the cherry-tree 


268 


A LONG LANE 


last summer, — “The Messenger Bird.” Margarita had 
deadened her sensibilities by much piano-practice. 

“I will go home, now!” said the visitor, rising with 
much of her accustomed graceful self-possession. “I am 
sorry if I have displeased you. I am more sorry if I have 
said anything to wound you. My only fault is that I 
was too fond of your son to let him be unhappy if I 
could do anything to prevent it. You have been so kind 
to me and to mine, that I cannot bear the thought of 
alienating you. When you think over what I have said, — 
you must see that I had no thought of disloyalty to you.” 

Mrs. Corlaer sat still, her eyes fixed upon the opposite 
wall, the bluish pallor unyielding. Her hands were locked 
fast upon each other. Mrs. de Baun was at the door, 
her hand upon the bolt, before strained, hollow tones she 
had never heard before, turned her back. 

“And yet” — every syllable an effort — “he — ^let — me — 
think — all — was — over ! He deceived me when I held him 
in my arms that very night, and told him — he — was — the 
core — of — my — heart T* 

The last words were a stifled shriek. The locked hands 
pushed the woman away who would have embraced her in 
a transport of remorse. 

“The girl who, you say, is good, changed his very na- 
ture! But for her, he would be with me now. Would be 
loving me still ! I could find it in my heart to curse her ! 
The heart you and she have broken and emptied of love — 
and joy — and hope! She turned him against his mother. 
She Jcilled him! May God reward her according to her 
works !” 

It was terrible to see the distorted visage, and listen 
to the disjointed sentences jerked out of the set lips. The 
younger woman fell upon her knees and prayed aloud, 
hiding her eyes from the sight. 


A LONG LANE 


269 


“Dear Lord! help her!” 

She hardly knew that she said it, or that she had her 
arms about the lady’s waist, and was nestling her face 
in her lap, until she felt a hand upon her head. 

“Perhaps I may see things differently by to-morrow!” 
The voice was not yet quite natural, but the intonations 
were less harsh. “Go home now, as you said you would. 
No! child! I am not angry with you. You have not been 
a mother long enough to comprehend what this discovery 
is to me. It was not you who took his love and confi- 
dence away from me. Do not ask me to forgive her! I 
never will!” 

Bewildered and dejected, the would-be peace-maker 
crept out of the house, escaping the sisters, who were stiU 
warbling — 

“O, say! do they love there still .^” 

Blindly she climbed into the carriage and drove home, 
baffled and wretched beyond any previous experience of 
her quiet, commonplace hfe. 

Alpine guides tell us that a sudden outcry or laugh 
from the vale overhung by a poised avalanche, may bring 
down ruin and death upon homes below. 

The hapless lady, left to her haunted solitude, might 
never have heard the superstition. She would not have 
associated it with her plight if she had. For a long 
hour she sat bowed together as one bound to the wheel, 
and praying for the coup de grace that would be the end 
of feeling. It should have fallen, if there were mercy in 
Heaven, with the horrible imagination that sprang into 
life in the recollection of a single phrase : 

‘"He promised that he would tell you everything before 
he spoke to his father!'^ 


270 


A LONG LANE 


He meant, then, to carry the story to his father! He 
had changed his mind so far as she was concerned. He 
had made a formal appointment with his father for an in- 
terview. The business-conference was on the preceding 
day. As vividly, as with her bodily sight, she saw the boy 
as she kissed him “good-bye” that fatal morning and 
watched him from the porch walk down the road — to his 
death ! 

How had that death come to pass.^ She had ques- 
tioned Dick Walker the day Will died, with regard to 
finding her son upon the office-floor. She had interrogated 
the doctor yet more closely as to the patient’s condition 
and symptoms. Until this instant she had believed fall, 
hemorrhage and concussion of the brain to be consequent 
upon extreme weakness. He had not gauged his forces 
aright. The excitement of the return home, nervous- 
ness, induced by the necessity of rendering account of 
his stewardship (that was the way he put it to her), and 
a dozen other causes, had worn him out. He had fainted 
when the strain of the second talk with his principal was 
over, fallen and struck his head. She had Dr. Ten Eyck’s 
word that there was nothing whatever out of the ordi- 
nary in it all. 

Now! She marvelled that she had perceived nothing 
ominous in her husband’s obstinate reserve respecting the 
interview which lasted — according to Dick’s testimony — 
more than three-quarters of an hour. Her husband had 
rebuffed her almost roughly when she would have heard 
from him something of the last coherent words their son 
was ever to speak on earth. He was fearfully broken 
by their common bereavement. Dr. Ten Eyck had dis- 
suaded her from questionings that would reopen the 
wound. 

She must never speak of it again ! She was not an old 


A LONG LANE 


271 


woman. There might be twenty-five years more for her 
to live, and through them all, this cross would be bound 
upon her soul. The suspenseful anguish of her Gethsem- 
ane was to endure for all that time. She must tread 
the wine-press alone; drink, to the bitter dregs, waters 
of a full cup to be wrung out unto her. 


CHAPTER XXV 


I T is winter, not March, this year, that came in like a 
lion and will go out like a lamb, if this weather lasts 
a fortnight longer.” 

The speaker was the sweet-faced mistress of the manse, 
standing at the open window of her dining-room for a 
satisfactory survey of the row of hyacinth-glasses ranged 
upon the sill. 

“They never bloomed so early before, and they were 
never so lovely,” she continued, stooping to inhale the 
fragrance coaxed from the swaying bells by the bland air. 
“And this is only the middle of February.” 

Without looking around, she had addressed her hus- 
band, who, equipped for a round of pastoral calls, had 
turned back at the front-gate where his horse and car- 
riage were waiting for him. 

He thrust a paper between her and the flowers. 

“Dick Walker brought it. He said it required an an- 
swer, but did not wait for it. I told him I would bring 
it as I went by. The boy looked so serious I am afraid 
something has gone wrong. Read it !” 

The note was from Patsey: 

“Dear Madam: If you can possibly come to see me 
this afternoon, please do! I have something to tell you 
that will interest you. I am pretty well nigh worried to 
death over it, though it don’t concern me, or mine — 
thank God! except as I am awful sorry for them that 
are hurt by it. 


272 


A LONG LANE 


273 


‘‘This is confidential with you and the Dominie. Not 
a word to any other soul — please! P. W.” 

“What’s up, I wonder ! I thought we had had our fill 
of sensations for one season. Now, that it can’t be 
proved that the mill was fired by any of the Van Dycks, 
and they are likely to get the insurance-money — I hoped 
we would settle down into the old respectable jog-trot. 
Get your things on, dear, and I will drop you at Patsey’s 
door. You will get there sooner than if you walk, and 
I can see you are at the last gasp with curiosity — the 
very last gasp!” 

“Judging me by yourself !” was the retort. 

Both were in fine spirits. Patsey’s “something” could 
not touch them very nearly. They had seen all the Cor- 
laers, and several of the Brouwers that day, and the Par- 
sonage babies were racing up and down the garden walks 
under their eyes at that moment. 

Arriving at Patsey’s house, Mr. de Baun helped his 
wife to alight, and inquired if he should call for her. 

Patsey answered for her from the door-step : 

“// you wouldn’t mind,^ sir ! It’s likely I’ll detain her 
quite a while, and if you don’t mind, I think I’d wish to 
have a little talk with you, too.” 

He looked at her keenly. Her complexion was mottled 
oddly, and her eyes were red. Her speech had nothing 
of her wonted liveliness, and she was preternaturally 
grave. 

“What has gone wrong with you, Patsey.?’ Can I be 
of any use!”’ 

“I wish to the Lord you could, sir 1” The tears welled 
up thickly. “It’s too late 1 too late 1 I won’t hinder you 
now. You’ll know all about it soon enough.” 

She led the wondering visitor into the house and shut 


274 


A LONG LANE 


the door. Then she pulled forward a chair for her, threw 
herself into another, and burst into a flood of weeping. 

“O, Mrs. de Baun! you can’t imagine a worse thing 
than what’s happened. Leave me alone for a second, and 
I’ll tell you from the word ‘Go.’ ” 

The lady’s terror-stricken expression restored her to 
sense and speech in an incredibly brief time. She told a 
straight story. She had no heart for digressions. 

“Nigh upon six o’clock this morning, I heard a bang- 
in’ at the door, and who should it be but Sauchy Van 
Dyck! She was all out of breath, with runnin’, but she 
made out to tell me I must come right over there ‘to see 
“Baby,” ’ ’s she calls her, who was dreadful sick. I can 
understand her lingo, having known her so long, and I 
said I’d be there at once. She ran back as fast as she 
had come. I was all dressed and had Dick’s breakfast 
ready, and I didn’t lose a minute. As Providence would 
have it, I had sense enough to tell him to go for Dr. Ten 
Eyck. Sauchy ain’t easily scared. I ran pretty near all 
the way, myself — I’d got so stirred up. It was lucky I 
did, for the baby was born half-an-hour after I got there.” 

*‘The habyT* The ejaculation was a shriek. 

For a moment the room was a whirl of darkness. She 
heard from afar off, Patsey’s — “There! there, dear! I 
hadn’t ought to have let it out so sudden!” and felt the 
spatter of cold water upon her face. 

“Go on!” were her first conscious words. “I can’t be- 
lieve it!” 

“Nor I wouldn’t, if I could help it! Dr. Ten Eyck got 
in surprisin’ soon. He’d been to a case and Dick caught 
him just as he got home. He knew something very much 
out of the way must be the matter, and he drove over 
without waitin’ a minute. 

“I’ve been through a-many tryin’ scenes, Mrs. de Baun, 


A LONG LANE 


275. 

but I hope never to see another like that. The doctor 
himself was that taken aback he hardly knew what he 
was about. And though her room is at the other end of 
the house, we could hear Mrs. Van Dyck a-callin’ out for 
somebody to tell her what was goin’ on. And she, chained 
to her bed, as you might say! An’ that Sauchy! as 
pleased as could be when she saw the child, and soberin’ 
down when we told her ’twas a boy. Then, if you’ll be- 
lieve me, when she see me wrap it in a towel, she ran off 
to the garret and come haulin’ down an old trunk full 
of clothes what had belonged to Sarah when she was a 
baby. Most of them Sauchy had made herself, and ’twas 
her that had put them away and saved them all these 
years — poor foolish thing! 

‘‘But the terriblest of all was when Mr. Van Dyck come 
in from the barn where he and Cort had been milkin’ and 
so on. He hadn’t so much as seen the doctor’s buggy, 
for he had hitched it at the big gate, and come right into 
the house, and so up-stairs. I’d been obleeged to see Mrs. 
Van Dyck, and let her know what was goin’ on, and I 
counted upon her tellin’ him. But everything went askew 
somehow, and the first person he saw when he stopped in 
the kitchen for to wash his hands, was that horrid little 
Jane, who blurted it all out. An’ up-stairs he come, a- 
stormin’ like mad, and into the room where I was dressin’ 
the child, an’ we’d just got Sarah comfortable an’ quiet. 
Before the doctor could ketch holt of him, he marched up 
to the bed and shook his fist in her face. An’ says he, in 
a sort of roar — a-shakin’ the other fist over the baby’s 
head — ‘Whose brat is that.?^’ 

“She laid there as calm as I am now, an’ looked up in 
his face as brave as could be (her that was always that 
respectful to her father!) an’ says she — ‘Mine!* He 
couldn’t get another word out of her, for all he raved an’ 


A LONG LANE 


276 

carried on about ‘the shame she had brought on him and 
her mother.’ Then it was that Dr. Ten Eyck took hold 
of him by the two arms, and pushed him clean out of the 
room. 

“‘My patient be kept quiet!’ he says, so deter- 

mined there was no resistin’ him. 

“He ain’t much to look at, but his heart is in the right 
place. Before he went home, he took me into Sauchy’s 
room across the hall and when he tried to give me his 
instructions, he choked up an’ couldn’t speak for a little 
while. You may be sure I gave way like a fool when I 
saw that, and we cried together. 

“ ‘I wouldn’t have had this happen for a mint of 
money!’ says he, at last. ‘When did you know about 
it?’ 

“With that, I said as how, old woman an’ nurse as I 
am, I hadn’t suspicioned it. We agreed it come ahead 
of time, as it certainly did. It’s a mite of a baby, but 
all right, an’ the Lord forgive me. — I’m sorry to say 
it’s hkely to live! 

“Nobody but the doctor an’ me — an’ that fool Sauchy, 
who is off what head she has for joy! nobody else, I say, 
has a kind word for the poor girl who is payin’ for some- 
body else’s sin as well as her own.” 

Mrs. de Baun looked steadily at her: 

“I am afraid that people will have no doubt who that 
is! What do you think, Patsey?” 

“Haven’t I been askin’ myself that question all day! 
I know, as you say, what everybody will believe. I won’t 
trust myself to think about it ! I loved that boy as if he 
had been my own flesh-an’-blood. He meant to marry 
her. I had it from his own lips the day he fell sick. If 
him — an’ her — are sinners — all I’ve got to say is that 
there’s other folks what may blame themselves for it! 


A LONG LANE 


277 


‘‘That’s one reason I asked you to come to me, instead 
of me goin’ to your house. For one thing, these^^ — wav- 
ing her hand in a circle — “are about the only walls any- 
where in this region what hasn’t got ears. They’re two 
foot thick, and solid stone. I don’t pretend to say who 
gets on to ugly stories and sets ’em a-goin’ in Kinapeg. 
I do say none of ’em start here! But they do start, an’ 
they fly when once they get their breath. What I want to 
consult you an’ the Dominie about is how are to manage 
this affair? We can’t get out of it — no way we can fix 
it. If it could be hushed up, I, for one, wouldn’t be back- 
ward in what you might call ‘circumnavigatin’ the exact 
truth. Of two sins, choose the least, I say. I s’pose I’m 
a rank sinner to think of it, but I’ll lie point-blank to 
save a woman’s reputation, any day. If it could be done ! 
Even if we could cut that Jane’s dirty tongue out — and 
I’d like to have the job! there’s too many others in it. 
The only question is if we can agree upon some plan for 
makin’ it easier all ’round. Nobody will ever convince 
you, nor me — nor Dick, for that matter — that Sarah Van 
Dyck is a bad girl. I can recollect things, now, that show 
how she has repented, and how she has gone pretty nigh 
crazy over it. I didn’t understand then. I do now, and 
sure as you an’ me are sittin’ here, there’s joy this day 
in heaven over one sinner that has repented.” 

“I believe it !” was the solemn response. “I can see now, 
why she has avoided me for a long while, and the reason 
for her deep depression of spirits. Poor child! what she 
must have suffered! If only she had taken us into her 
confidence, we might have shielded her in some way ; sent 
her away to a Retreat — or something of the kind. Now — 
all we can do is to speak charitably of her when gossips 
make free with her name — as they will — and be as kind 
to her as she will let us be! She has hardened sadly of 


A LONG LANE 


278 

late. I can see why, now. If that poor boy had lived, 
justice would have been done her!” 

“There’s things that can’t be set right, nohow you can 
fix it!” returned Patsey, despondently. “As for hopin’ 
for justice and mercy from folks in general, it’s a poor 
lookout. Them what has made a misstep an’ found how 
hard ’twas to get back, can sympathise with others what’s 
done the same. I never saw Dick so cut up about any- 
thing as he is over this. When I told him at dinner-time — 
me bein’ later than common — what had happened, the boy 
turned white as a sheet, and dropped into his chair, quite 
overcome. Couldn’t swallow a mouthful, and was that 
downhearted I felt as sorry for him ’s if the trouble had 
been his’n.” 

Distracted though Mrs. de Baun was by other thoughts, 
she could recall her husband’s remark, that when Mrs. 
Van Dyck w^as worried or fretted, she reverted to early 
habits of language and manner. 

“There is some occult connection between mental dis- 
tress and a plurality of negatives,” was his deduction 
from the fact. 

By one of the incongruities of human nature that must 
ever remain unsolved, the absurdity obtruded itself upon 
her, and kept recurring in spite of her impatience with 
it and herself, as Patsey rushed on: 

“He has a-feelin’ heart — that boy has. An’ he’ll never 
forget that ’twas her what was the first person to speak 
to him — last year ! She was cornin’ out of the post-office 
as he was kind of skulkin’ along, afraid to meet any- 
body’s eyes, and stopped him right there, with a dozen 
people lookin’ on. And says she — ‘Why, Dick, how do 
you do.?^ I’m glad to see you again. I can think how 
happy your mother must be !’ 

“x\s friendly an’ easy ’s if he had been away on an or- 


A LONG LANE 


279 

dinary trip! An’ her goodness to me is past my tellin’. 
He worships the ground she walks on, an’ I ain’t far 
behind him.” 

She was at her post in Sarah’s chamber by three o’clock. 
Mother and child were sleeping quietly, and Sauchy was 
on guard, the grimmest of sentinels. She had had a 
battle-royal with her sister-in-law, when, moved by 
Sarah’s entreaties, she repaired to the lower part of the 
house to see to the preparation of dinner. Jane had 
things in a state of unexpected forwardness, and Sauchy 
took Mrs. Van Dyck’s tray up to her. 

As soon as she entered, she was assailed by a storm 
of invective, as unmerited as pitiless. “Sauchy had spoiled 
her niece until she was good-for-nothing. The two of 
them had dragged the family into the mud. Sarah was, 
henceforward, no child of her respectable parents. The 
best thing to do with her was to put her and the brat out- 
of-doors as soon as she was able to move” — and so much 
more to the same effect that the purport pierced its way 
to the quick of the hearer’s heart. She listened, dumbly 
savage, until the threat of expulsion was made. Then 
she picked up the tray she had set upon the stand by 
the bed, and deliberately emptied the teapot, cream- jug 
and covered dish of creamed codfish, the plate of bread 
and the saucer of custard — into the fire. 

^‘You go, too!” she said, in her deepest gutturals. 
“Baby and Boy here! Me” — tapping her chest, proudly 
— “with themr* 

She rarely said so many consecutive words, and pan- 
tomime filled in the gaps. She would fight to the death 
for her darlings. The bed-fast woman believed her ca- 
pable of carrying out the menace. Sauchy left her wail- 
ing as weakly as the baby at the other end of the hall 
might be doing, and betook herself to the arrangement of 


28 o 


A LONG LANE 


a second tray for her namesake. Mr. Van Dyck, catching, 
some sounds of the fray from below, shook off his selfish 
absorption in grief so far as to inquire the cause. Sauchy 
stalked by him in the hall, head up and nostrils distended 
with the glee of conquest. 

Verily, the erst favourite of a discriminating Provi- 
dence had his full share of affliction in the turn of For- 
tune’s wheel! 

Patsey got a digest of the tale, and put it behind her 
as beneath contempt. She kept out of Mrs. Van Dyck’s 
room for the rest of the day. She had never liked her. 
Gathering from Sauchy’s abstract of the scene, the dis- 
position of the virtuous matron to make a clean sweep 
of sinner and the fruit of her iniquity, she cast the whole 
weight of her indignant sympathy upon the wrong side. 
Her exhausted patient slumbered heavily for most of the 
afternoon. The baby-boy could not be doing better. 

*‘He’ll likely sleep pretty steady for a month to come,” 
she observed to the doctor at his second call. ‘Tt’s a way 
they have of makin’ up for lost time. Will I come back 
to-night? You’d better believe wild horses — not to men- 
tion other folks” — significantly — ‘‘couldn’t keep me 
away. Sauchy will look after them while I go home. She’s 
better than ten watch-dogs.” 

She had thought it prudent to acquaint the man-of- 
heahng with the mother’s outburst. It was weU to be 
prepared for future clashes. 

“It is onl}^ what might be prognosticated !” was his 
reassurance. “She will subside into normal passivity when 
nerves and temper have readjusted themselves. I appre- 
hend that it is her pride, more than her maternal affec- 
tion, which has received the severer laceration.” 

“Just my idea!” assented Patsey. “She thinks a 
plaguey sight more of her blamed respectability than she 


A LONG LANE 


281 

does of her poor child. All the same, doctor, it might be 
as well for you to give her a dose of something quietin’, 
so ’s she won’t disturb us by screechin’ when the house 
ought to be still at night. Fll stand by the ship — sink 
or swim!” 

Her fighting blood — and there was plenty of it — was 
up. It was heated to boiling point by the meeting with 
Mr. Van Dyck that evening. Dick brought her over after 
supper. 

‘‘I’ll run home for my meals regular,” she told him. 
“Somehow it would choke me for to eat a mouthful in that 
house. If I had never been set against ’em before, these 
carryin’s-on would sicken me of the old Pharisees!” 

The father met her at the door, and led her into the 
sitting-room. 

He had been there alone since the boys went off — ^he 
did not inquire whither — after supper. An open Bible 
lay upon the stand before his chair. A large red silk 
handkerchief — limp and crumpled — was beside it. 

“Sit down, Patsey,” he began. The whining drawl that 
used to wind up sentences of pious portent, was constant 
and pronounced. “Jane told me you were coming, and I 
waited to have family worship until you could join me. 
You and I can feel for one another as everybody couldn’t. 
Each of us has seen the child of the Covenant and of 
many prayers become a castaway. Your case is, in one 
particular, less deplorable than mine. Your unhappy boy 
had never made a public profession of religion, and was 
not liable to the discipline of the church. It has come 
to me, to-night, while sitting here and trying to find con- 
solation in Holy Writ, that my name is to be disgraced 
still more than it has been done already by ungrateful and 
unnatural children. My daughter, being the only one of 
the four who is a church-member, must be suspended from 


282 


A LONG LANE 


the Ordinances for a time, if not excommunicated. I shall 
— as a member of the Consistory — call upon Dominie de 
Baun to-morrow and ask that this be done promptly. At 
the same time I shall tender my resignation as an Elder 
of the Church.” 

Patsey boiled over there : 

“You couldn’t do a better thing! Our church holds to 
‘rotation of office’ — that’s what they call it — ain’t it? 
an’ there’s not a few what have said that the rule ought 
to be carried out. You must have been in nigh upon fif- 
teen years. ’Tain’t consistent, I say! You’ll set a fine 
example by resignin’, and you have a first rate excuse, as 
you say.” 

“You have not grasped my meaning, my good sister!” 
The patronising air nearly brought on another outgush, 
but as she said afterward to Mrs. de Baun — she “sat 
on the lid hard, and prayed !” 

“I should — God willing! have held the office to which 
He and the votes of my brethren had called me, until He 
was pleased to translate me to the Upper Sanctuary. I 
shall resign because my garments are, so to speak, spotted 
by the flesh. Through no fault of mine, but because my 
child of whom, God forgive me! my wife says I made an 
idol — has stained an honourable name with the blackest of 
crimes. I cannot let the church of my fathers become 
a by-word and a hissing among the sons of Belial. O, 
that I should have lived to see this day!” 

His chin fell upon his shirt-front; he pressed the red 
silk handkerchief to his eyes. It was voluminous. Patsey 
speculated idly, whether or not it would be sacrilegious 
to tell Dick that, for the life of her, she could not help 
thinking of a fat Robin Redbreast. 

“It does seem like a pity !” briskly. “But, if I was you, 
Mr. Van Dyck, I wouldn’t bother my brains about other 


A LONG LANE 283 

folk’s sins, no matter how near-kin they are. They tell me 
the Bible doesn’t say ‘Every tub shall stand on its own 
bottom,’ but it had ought to be there. Anyhow, it’s in 
Pilgrim’s Progress, and that’s the next best book printed. 
So long as you make your callin’ an’ election sure, it’s all 
can be expected of a poor sinful creatur! I don’t feel 
to want to discuss any other person’s shortcomin’s with 
you. An’ I mistrust my callin’ just now is up-stairs. But 
while you were argufyin’, there popped into my head — 
it’s funny how such things happen! there come into my 
mind a text I once heard a preacher in Jersey City read. 
I disremember the sermon! ’Twas the way he bore down 
hard upon one word that struck me dumb. Bein’ an Elder 
an’ used to leadin’ prayer-meetin’s, you recollect the 
whole chapter ’Twas where the Lord is talkin’ about 
them what will say to Him at the Last Day how they 
prophesied in His name (that’s leadin’ in meetin’, I take 
it!) an’ in His name done many wonderful works. ‘Then 
I will say unto them, I never knew youT I’d never 
thought of puttin’ it that way! Likely’s not, you’ll call 
it disrespectful, but, to save my life, I couldn’t help think’ 
’twas the same way we speak to people who claim ac- 
quaintance with us, when we don’t want to have anything 
to do with ’em — ‘You have the advantage of me!’ The 
way he put the emphasis upon that ‘you’ made an impres- 
sion upon me I have never forgot. My mother used to 
tell me when I got a tiptop thing like that, it was a 
Christian duty to pass it on. ’S I say, it popped into my 
mind, quite unexpected, while you were talkin’ about not 
makin’ the church of your fathers a by-word an’ a hissin’. 
Queer! wasn’t it? I’m afraid you’ll have Fam’ly Prayers 
by yourself, to-night, without you go up-stairs and com- 
fort Mrs. Van Dyck with ’em. It’s a burnin’ shame for 
me to waste so much of your time gabblin’ here, when 


A LONG LANE 


284 

you might be studyin’ the Scriptures and mournin’ over 
the sins of our children! 

“Good night !” 

She halted at the door and smiled happily: 

“But that was a bully notion! — makin’ so much out 
of one word in a text — ^wasn’t it? I’m glad I thought 
to tell you about it. I hope it will stick by you as it has 
by me!” 


t 


CHAPTER XXVI 


T he regular Monthly Meeting of the Consistory will 
be held on Wednesday evening of this week in the 
Pastor’s Study.” The notice, word for word, had been 
read from the pulpit of the Kinapeg church twelve Sun- 
days in the year for three-quarters of a century. 

To one unacquainted with recent events that had shaken 
the foundations of .Society within the month separating 
the first Sunday in April from those preceding and fol- 
lowing it, there would have been no significance in the 
announcement upon that particular day. Yet the pastor’s 
voice was less sonorous than usual, and he laid aside the 
slip of paper containing the calendar of weekly services 
with a sinking heart and tremulous hand. 

‘‘The hardest job of my life!” he confessed to his wife 
when they were safe at home. “But the reality of the 
meeting will be ten times worse. I can enter into the 
feelings of Abraham when commanded to sacrifice Isaac. 
The face of the poor child arose between my eyes and 
the paper as I began to read. I wish from my soul some 
tougher chap — one who is as much of a saint as I am a 
sinner at this minute — ^had it in hand! O, yes! you 
needn’t trouble yourself to say it is a duty I owe to the 
church. I feel like a rascal in the anticipation. Like a 
full-fledged rascal!” 

The pastor, four elders and four deacons made up the 
tale of the minor Church Court. Nobody had expected 
to see more than three elders present on Wednesday even- 

285 


286 


A LONG LANE 


ing. And most of them, if the truth were told, had 
thought that Mr. Corlaer would absent himself, if for no 
other reason, because popular report said his son had 
been engaged to marry the young woman to be dealt with 
on that occasion. 

Yet when the meeting was ‘‘opened with prayer by the 
Pastor” — as would be recorded by the secretary — seven 
answered to the roll-call. Wilhelmus Corlaer was in his 
usual seat next to the Dominie, with a face of granite 
and eyes that betrayed nothing of tumults which his 
brethren divined must be raging behind their steady gaze. 
He had aged frightfully since his son’s death, but nobody 
had heard a moan. When condoled with, he replied in 
conventional phrase, and changed the subject. If his 
stanch friend and pastor thought his absence to-night 
would have been in better taste than the outward per- 
formance of a duty which must rack his endurance to 
the utmost, he could but admire the father’s iron com- 
posure and steadfast purpose. He was guarding the 
good name of the dead. The boldest scandal-monger 
there would not dare cast the shadow of suspicion upon 
one of this man’s blood and household. 

Preliminaries were brief and unimportant. The crux 
of the hour was in the reply of Elder Bartholf to what 
was technically known in the Kinapeg church as “the 
Constitutional Question.” Stripped of verbiage, it called 
upon those present to say if they were cognizant of 
action on the part of any communicant of this particular 
branch of the Church of Christ, inconsistent with his or 
her Christian profession. 

Johannes Bartholf was, next to John Van Dyck, the 
oldest member of the Consistory so far as term of service 
went. It was meet that he should be ready to report 
the “grievous lapse from Christian consistency of Sarah 


A LONG LANE 287 

Voorliees Van Dyck, daughter of our beloved brother 
John Van Dyck,” et cetera. 

The Dominie asked for no further evidence than his 
own concise statement that he had visited the person thus 
accused, had had from her lips confession of her error, and 
that he believed her to be contrite and willing to submit 
to the discipline the Church might see fit to impose. He 
entered no plea for the transgressor other than might 
be implied in his use of the word of “error” for “crime,” 
and having condensed the gist of the matter into four 
terse sentences, held his peace. 

The “body” stirred uneasily. Something remained un- 
said which was of vital import in the mind of two elders 
and four deacons. Deacon Gansevoort Dubois, albeit the 
youngest man there, spoke out what the rest dare not 
hint, much less assert. 

“It has reached my ears, Mr. President, and I dare say 
it has been heard by others of the brethren, that there 
may have been a private marriage which would materially 
alter the aspect of this case. May I ask if any one here 
has any knowledge of such an event?” 

He sat down. All there had time to see Wilhelmus 
Corlaer grow as livid as a dead man, and his knuckles 
whiten in the clutch upon his cane, before the pastor said 
low and slowly, without raising his eyes from the floor : 

“I have the assertion of the person under trial that 
there was no marriage!” 

In the silence that ensued, all heard the father’s long- 
drawn breath of intense feeling that might be relief. The 
blood ebbed back slowly to his cheeks; then — and one of 
the group felt that the man had never done a finer thing — 
he arose to his feet, erect as a palm-tree and firm as Gib- 
raltar : 

“Mr. President and fellow-members of the Consistory: 


288 


A LONG LANE 


May I preface whatever may be your judgment of the 
case in hand by the suggestion that the sentence be made 
as lenient as is consistent with our duty as officers of 
this church and guardians of the morals of the members 
of the same? 

‘‘I enter this plea in consideration of the youth and 
previous good character of the offender. We have our 
pastor’s attestation to her penitence, and we may trust 
his word.” 

He sat down, and for a moment there was no verbal 
response to the unexpected appeal. The pastor put his 
hand to his throat, before he stood up, and looked from 
one to another of the men about him. Hard- vis aged they 
were for the most part, bronzed by wind and weather, 
and lined by years and care. Not one of them was merci- 
less. Most of them had children of their own to whom 
thought flew, and over whom hearts yearned at the men- 
tion of the sinner’s youth. 

Perhaps conscience and memory were busy with each. 

‘‘Brethren!” began Mr. de Baun, his hand again seek- 
ing his throat: “I do not speak for myself alone in 
saying that this deplorable affair is a personal grief. The 
brother who has just spoken has anticipated what I would 
have put into words but for the fear that the personal 
sorrow I have alluded to might bias my judgment. We 
are not to leave out of sight the great truth that the 
honour of the church must be conserved. At the same 
time, we cannot forget Who said in like circumstances — 
‘Neither do I condemn thee. Go in peace!’ It behooves 
us to bear both of these things in mind. Will some one 
make a motion embodying our decision? Or do you 
desire to devote more time and thought to the dis- 
cussion ?” 

Another pregnant pause, and Abraham Sythoff, the 


A LONG LANE 289 

most diffident and taciturn member of the Consistory, 
dragged himself up : 

“I move that the — person — in question be suspended 
from the ordinances of the Church for the space of three 
months, and that the pastor be requested to confer fur- 
ther with her and administer such reprimand as he may 
see fit.” 

In less time than it takes me to write of it, the motion 
was seconded and carried. A few items of miscellaneous 
business were brought forward and disposed of, and the 
meeting was adjourned. If nobody said outright that the 
sentence was milder than if the sinner had been older and 
of a different type of her sex, all felt it. Furthermore, 
the generally accepted theory was that to push the in- 
vestigation would be a grievous offence to an influential 
member of their body. 

“Least said, soonest mended!” commented Elder Sy- 
thoff to his companions as they strolled homeward. 

And Deacon Dubois, dubiously — “Perhaps so! But 
I have my doubt as to the wisdom of letting circumstances 
alter cases beyond a certain point. It is an ugly busi- 
ness, at the best.” 

Their official share in it was over. They were at 
liberty to discuss the pros of the particular case 
(there were no cons) ad libitum in their respective house- 
holds, and in the market-place, without let or hindrance. 

The Dominie got him forth at nine o’clock next morn- 
ing to acquit himself of the most painful of the obnoxious 
offices that had devolved upon him in the whole progress 
of the tragedy. If practicable, he would forestall Dame 
Rumour in conveying to the afflicted family tidings of 
Consistorial action. 

A drizzling rain was falling, and under it the ruins of 
the mill were glazed to jetty blackness. Pie drove past 


290 


A LONG LANE 


them, up the hill to the barn, and tied his horse under 
the wagon-shed. Meeting no one on the way, he climbed 
the steep path winding to the side-door, impressed, as 
his wife had been a month earlier, by the desolation that 
hung like the shadow of doom over the once-prosperous 
homestead. Full as his brain was of weightier matters, 
he could not help muttering: — 

‘‘If those boys were worth the powder and shot it would 
take to kill them, they would clear away the burnt beams 
and boards, if they did nothing more ! There would seem 
to be a curse upon the place !” 

The fancy softened look and speech in meeting with the 
stricken father who opened the door for him. 

“I was on the watch for you,” was his greeting. “I 
supposed likely you would be here early. Walk in !” show- 
ing the visitor into the sitting-room. “Mother’s able to 
crawl around her room, but she can’t get down stairs 
yet. She’ll be thankful to see you presently. Sit down 
near the fire and take the dampness off before you go up. 
Sauchy, she will have a fire here on cold mornings. 

“I tell her ’tisn’t worth while. It doesn’t matter how 
things are for me now-a-days. But she is obstinate, and 
I let her have her way.” 

“She has been a good sister to you always — faithful 
and true!” the Dominie tried to speak cheerily. “I am 
glad she looks out for your comfort now that the good 
wife is laid aside. When I see her faithful discharge of 
duty, I wish some of us who have superior mental advan- 
tages would emulate her example.” 

Fearing lest he might seem unfeelingly abrupt, he post- 
poned the inevitable. 

The next words were therefore not altogether an un- 
welcome surprise: “The boys heard by milking-time this 
morning that the Consistory did their duty last night. 


A LONG LANE 


291 

The sentence is lighter than I had expected. Who made 
the motion.^” 

“Abraham Sythoff.” He fancied that a shade of dis- 
appointment flitted across the other’s face at the reply, 
but held on his way : “It was seconded at once and car- 
ried without a word of dissent. The feeling manifested 
throughout the meeting was most kind and sympathetic.” 

“Was Wilhehnus Corlaer present .?*” 

“He was ! I omitted to mention that he was the first 
to suggest that leniency in judgment and in action should 
be exercised.” 

A sneer contorted the listener’s visage. 

“He omitted to say why, I presume?” 

“He gave no reason for the suggestion, other than the 
youth and contrition of the person whose error was under 
consideration. But we will not waste words in dispos- 
ing of a painful subject. Your child 

“She has forfeited all right to the title. Dominie ! 
What you are kind enough to slur over as an ‘error’ is 
the blackest crime a woman can be guilty of in the sight 
of God and man. While she and her illegitimate child 
remain under my roof, I shall never willingly hold any 
intercourse with her. You speak of contrition. I see 
no sign of it in her obstinate refusal to give up the name 
of the partner of her crime. I have laboured in vain to 
persuade her that it is her duty to make full confession. 
She will say nothing but ‘The child is mine! That is aU 
anybody need to know.’ 

“You know as well as I do, the direction in which our 
suspicions must point. I adjured her, in her mother’s 
name and mine, to give evidence of repentance unto life 
by revealing the whole disgraceful truth. I even reminded 
her that the fair name of the innocent might suffer 
through her stubborn refusal. It was like pouring water 


292 


A LONG LANE 


upon a rock. Her very nature seems to be changed. Her 
mother has not been able to walk to her daughter’s room 
as yet. I anticipate no good results from the meeting 
when it does take place.” 

“Postpone it as long as you can!” Aware of the 
senior’s fondness for his own eloquence, the pastor had 
not interrupted the outgoing up to this point. “The 
worst is over for you all. I advise you, as I shall advise 
Sarah, to let the dead past bury its dead. What is done 
is beyond remedy. I believe her to be sincerely penitent. 
It is not for us to withhold forgiveness of sins when the 
Master has cast them behind him. Don’t think of disown- 
ing her, or her innocent child. They are your own flesh 
and blood, and your duty toward them is plain. You 
will see this more clearly when the smart of the wound 
is not so fresh. 

“Now” — dismissing his perfunctory manner, he arose 
— “may I go up to see Mrs. Van Dyck.^ I have a busy 
day before me.” 

The elder was professional on the instant. 

“By all means. And you have the ‘reprimand’ to de- 
liver. Nobody can regret the necessity laid upon you in 
the exercise of your painful duty more than I do.” 

After a remark which was, at least, extraordinary when 
on? reflected upon his relation to the one to be censured, 
he ushered the pastor up the stairs into his wife’s 
room. 

She sat by the window overlooking, through the naked 
branches of the cherry-tree, the blackened ruins and the 
bridge skirting them. If she coveted the luxury of woe, 
she assuredly had it in the contemplation of the defaced 
picture without, and the desolation of pride and hope 
within. 

Her knitting-work lay idly in her lap, the withered 


A LONG LANE 


293 


and veinous hands lying loosely upon it. The scrupulous 
neatness of the chamber and her person betokened re- 
gard for outward seeming that never left her. But her 
face was no longer comely and complacent, and her greet- 
ing to the visitor was smileless. She, too, entered without 
prelude upon the matter that was uppermost in the minds 
of all three. 

‘T ain’t got a word to say against it, Dominie. In my 
time, such a thing would have turned a woman clean out 
of church for good and all, and no respectable person 
would have ever spoken to her again. I told Father I 
knew it was out of respect to him and what the fam’ly 
used to be, that she’s let off so easy. I had hoped to be 
thankful it was done. I ain’t sure that it don’t make the 
disgrace harder to bear. Seems, somehow, as if the heft 
of it is shifted off upon us two.” 

Whereupon, like the valiant soldier of the Cross that 
he was, her spiritual adviser spoke with the tenderness 
of a son and the authority of the ordained priest. He 
tried to divert her mourning over her damaged pride to 
thoughts of her child’s young life, blighted by one sin. 
He reminded her of the numberless gentle and lovable 
traits that had endeared the erring one to all who knew 
her, and appealed to her common sense to decide if these 
graces of soul and heart were destroyed by the single 
misstep. But he dwelt chiefly upon the Christian duty 
of absolute forgiveness of the wanderer, unto seventy- 
times seven. How could sinful mortal dare condemn where 
the Holiest One pardons freely? 

Without waiting for her reply, he proposed to pray 
with husband and wife, and poured OLit his heart in lov- 
ing supplication for their broken spirits and wounded af- 
fections. Never a word of the blow to pride, and their 
suffering under the contumely of neighbours and the os- 


294 


A LONG LANE 


tracism of acquaintances. These were in his sight lighter 
than vanity, not to be mentioned while they were in the 
Divine presence, and striving to see and think and feel 
with the Divine comprehension. 

Tears suffused the eyes of the mother, and the father 
wept outright as they arose from their knees. The Dom- 
inie did not resume his chair. 

‘‘The Lord bless you and keep you, and cause His face 
to shine upon you ! The Lord give you peace !” he pro- 
nounced, pressing a hand of each within both of his. “I 
will see you again soon. Good morning!” 

He was out of the room and half-way down the hall 
leading to Sarah’s chamber, before either recovered voice. 

He was expected, for Sarah was alone except for the 
child in the cradle beside her. Sauchy was busy else- 
where. She spent every spare minute at the shrine of 
“Boy.” 

“Don’t get up!” said the new-comer, when the girl 
would have come forward to receive him. “You are not 
strong enough yet to move around much. But you are 
looking better than when I saw you last.” 

The scarlet blood that dyed the fair skin reminded 
him of the circumstances of the visit paid two days be- 
fore. It was then he had had her confession of penitence. 
The interview had been a crucial test of her strength 
and of his resolve to deal with her justly, yet in mercy. 

“My wife sent her love, and wants to know if you will 
be able to see her,” he hurried on to say. 

Sarah raised sorrowful eyes, that were full of wonder, 
to his. 

“I did not suppose she would care to come,” she said, 
simply. 

“That shows that you have never understood how much 
she loves you. She would have been here before, but 


A LONG LANE 


295 

feared it might overtax your strength. The doctor ad- 
vised her to wait a little longer.” 

“Dr. Ten Eyck knew that she meant to come?” 

“Certainly he did, my child !” The growing wonder and 
the sorrow in look and utterance almost broke down his 
self-control. “He is your warm friend, too. I would not 
deceive you in such things. You must trust those who 
love you and who would serve you if they could. 

“I have a message for you from the Consistory that 
may prove how kindly others feel toward you.” 

Without other preamble, he told her what had been 
done the previous evening, holding back nothing and 
glossing over neither word nor action. 

She heard him through in mute attention, lying back 
in her rocking-chair, her eyes fixed upon the fire, her 
countenance unchanged save for the pallor that crept up 
to the temples and made her face ethereal. She was 
never more lovely, the speaker thought, in watching the 
clearing of eyes and expression — he could have said, the 
elevation of the spirit shining through. He was not pre- 
pared for the rapid rush of colour and her distressed look 
as she sat upright at the close of his narrative: 

^^Tlien ” — catching her breath convulsively — “for three 
months I am not a member of the church?” 

He bent his head regretfully: 

“If you choose to put it in that way. You are shut 
out from the ordinances of the church. It has nothing to 
do with your communion with your Heavenly Father. 
You are still His child. Nothing can alter tliatT' 

Apparently she had not heard it. The thin hands 
wrung each other hard ; her features were convulsed by a 
paroxysm of pain: 

“That means” — bringing out each syllable with an ef- 
fort — **that my hahy can't be baptised!" 


A LONG LANE 


296 

For the first time since her great sorrow overtook 
her, he saw her weep. ‘‘O God ! my punishment is greater 
than I can bear !” 

The sob rent his heart. For a few moments, he could 
not frame a reply. The room was still, but for the slow 
patter of the rain upon the porch-roof and the sighing 
of the fire. 

Sarah took her hands from her face and tried to 
speak : 

“I had never dreamed of that! Yet I might have 
known ! My poor baby ! who has never sinned !” 

“Listen, dear child! Three months will soon be gone. 
Then you will be restored to full membership, and ” 

An impatient gesture stayed the rest. She leaned to- 
ward him, hands locked and features working: 

*^But^ Mr. de Baun 1 so many babies die in the summer ! 
If ” She lapsed into weeping. 

This would never do ! The perplexed man laid a hand 
upon her arm. 

“Listen to me, child! I hope the little one will live 
through this, and many other summers. Should the worst 
happen before he is made a baptised member of the 
church, he is always the Saviour’s lamb ” 

The awkward essay at comfort went no further. 

*'CanH you see that I want him to have the sign, if he 
should be with the other angels.^ I have thought of it, 
day and night ! I didn’t know that it couldn't be !” 

The pastor’s head dropped upon his clenched hands. 
He groaned aloud. This, then, had borne her head above 
the billows of shame and grief, and saved her from blas- 
phemous despair. Superstition? Perhaps it might be. 
Might it not rather be the clutch of a drowning soul at 
the pledge of the Lover of little children — “In Heaven 
their angels do always behold the face of the Father?” 


A LONG LANE 


297 


Had He waited to set the seal upon their brows before 
taking them into His arms and declaring — for all time — 
‘‘Of such is the kingdom of Heaven?” 

His resolution was taken: 

“My daughter! stop crying and hear what I have to 
say! In our branch of the Christian Church, as in some 
others, godmothers and godfathers may represent the par- 
ents who, for any cause, do not take the vows upon them- 
selves which are required from the child’s natural guar- 
dians. 

“This may be done in your case, if you wish that the 
child shall be baptised before — you are — ready! to as- 
sume the vows of consecration. Think of some one whom 
you would select for this duty. I will do my part.” 

She had glanced up eagerly as he began. At the last 
words her countenance fell piteously: the shamed blood 
suffused her face in a hot rush. 

“I, don’t think, of, anybody! ” she began pain- 

fully. “Unless” — stumbling distressfully over the words 
— “perhaps, Mrs. Walker might! She knows things about 
me nobody else does. And you have seen how good she 
is to me. If she won’t, I must give up the thought.” 

She quivered under the blow dealt by the possibility. 

“I have no doubt she will! And you couldn’t have a 
better woman to ‘stand’ for him. I will see her and ask 
her.” 

“No! no! please! You are very kind, but she would 
be more likely to do it if I were to talk to her. She 
comes in every evening to put him to bed. Auntie is 
busy then. Mrs. Walker is one of the few people to whom 
I can talk!” 

“All right! couldn’t be better!” The Dominie got up 
and buttoned his coat across his chest. His tone was 
cordial, his bearing paternal. 


A LONG LANE 


298 

‘‘By the way, have you named him yet?” 

“Yes !” Her eyes were upon the fire again, and the 
answer was nearly inaudible: “His name is Benonil I 
couldn’t give him any other.” 

“I couldn’t have spoken a word after that, if my life 
had depended upon it !” the Dominie confessed to his wife, 
in recounting the incident. “It struck me to the heart! 
I hope I rallied sufficiently to say ‘Good-bye!’ but I 
wouldn’t be positive as to that — I wouldn’t be positive! 
The longer I think of the scene, the bigger the lump in 
my throat grows. I suppose I ought to dissuade her 
from fastening the name upon the poor innocent, but I 
can’t I” 

“He will be called ‘Ben,’ ” returned the practical woman, 
thoughtfully. “In time it will be taken for granted that 
it is ‘Benjamin.’ Let her have her own way — ^poor girl! 
Do you know, Ed, ever since you told me about her choos- 
ing Patsey Walker as godmother, — I’ve been wondering 
■ — I won’t say what! Nor think of it, if I can help it. 
Only, it would be a degree less dreadful than — some other 
things ! It is all hideous enough !” 

Her husband looked at her interrogatively: 

“I don’t see what you are driving at, little woman !” 

Then a queer gleam shot athwart his face. “If you 
are off the track, keep off! If you are on, get offT^ 

With which oracular morsel, the dialogue ended. 

There never was another wedded pair whose mutual 
understanding of things, seen and unseen, uttered and 
unspoken, was more complete. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


I T was Mrs. de Baun’s womanly tact that suggested 
the propriety and eminent expediency of a private 
christening. It was unusual, she admitted, except in the 
event of the serious illness of mother or child. Sarah’s 
slow gain of strength, the uncertain spring weather and 
the extreme youth of the child justified departure from 
established rules. The ceremony should be private, and, 
beyond the formal registry of it upon the church books, 
as little ‘mention be made of it as was compatible with the 
capacity of village gossip to nose out every event or inci- 
dent occurring within the bounds of the parish. 

One result of the arrangement had not been foreseen 
by any of those privy to it. Even Mrs. de Baun’s imag- 
ination had not conceived the possibility that the devia- 
tion from the beaten track of ecclesiastical observance 
would modify the relation maintained by Mr. Van Dyck 
toward his daughter and grandchild. The presence of 
an ordained Elder was customary at a private christen- 
ing. The pastor was stricken dumb with amazement by 
the receipt of a note three days before the appointed 
date, setting forth, in the grandiose verbiage habitual to 
his official moods and tenses, the grandfather’s intention 
of being present on the ‘‘important and mournful occa- 
sion.” 

“It is certainly important. Circumstanced as my 
household is at the present time, it must be mournful. I 
am unwilling to allow the intrusion of an unsympathetic 

299 


300 


A LONG LANE 


acquaintance upon the privacy of our grief and the re- 
ligious service to be performed under my roof. 

‘‘In view of these considerations, and urged by a sense 
of obligations associated with the office I hold in the 
Church whose pastor is to consecrate the unfortunate in- 
fant to the Master upon the occasion aforesaid, I am 
constrained to sacrifice personal preferences, and offer 
to be present at the christening aforesaid, in my capacity 
as an Elder of the aforesaid church, and perform such 
offices as may devolve upon me in that capacity.” 

If anything could have pricked the bubble of colossal 
conceit conspicuous in every line of the effusion that had 
cost him hours of labour, it would have been the exclama- 
tion that concluded Mrs. de Baun’s second perusal: 

“The Lord can make the wrath of man to praise Him ! 
Why not arrant foolishness, as well.?^” 

She was confirmed in the hope upon her arrival at the 
homestead on the set day, by finding the big parlours 
open and decorated for the ceremony. 

Those who knew Sauchy best and longest, never com- 
prehended how much her narrow intellect had gleaned of 
the meaning of religious services. When she chose to 
attend church, she went without consulting the family, 
occupying a place in the Van Dyck pew and conducting 
herself with decorum. By some method of communica- 
tion known to the two, Sarah made her comprehend that 
her idolized “Boy” was to be “made a Christian” that 
afternoon. Mrs. Van Dyck offered no opposition to 
her plan of setting the state-parlours in order. Guided 
by love, the poor creature had put bunches of spring 
flowers on tables and mantels, and stuck sprays of hem- 
lock and pine above pictures and mirror. She had in- 
vaded the recesses of Mrs. Van Dyck’s silver chest, and 
taken thence a silver bowl — a family treasure of great age 


A LONG LANE 


301 


— filled it with water, and set it upon a stand draped with 
white linen, drawn into the middle of the front room. The 
old Family Bible was laid beside it, and a tiny glass con- 
taining a single white hyacinth flanked it upon the other 
side. 

“All of her own notion!” Patsey seized a chance to 
say to the pastor’s wife. “I declare I think, sometimes, 
she’s sort of inspired — or something like that. She’s been 
at it since four o’clock this mornin’. An’ to see her dress 
that baby! I just broke down and cried like a fool!” 

Mrs. de Baun was not far from doing likewise. The 
day was so mild that a westward window was open, and 
the faint exquisite scent of flowers and resinous branches 
stole through the rooms. The little company was col- 
lected in the front parlour in a semi-circle about the 
improvised altar. 

The clergyman sat behind it. At his right was the 
Elder who was to assist in the service, his wife beside him. 
Mrs. de Baun was opposite, and next to her was the 
young mother. Sauchy was at Sarah’s other hand, ar- 
rayed in her Sunday grey alpaca, and next to her was 
Dick Walker. His mother had begged the privilege for 
him, and Mr. de Baun gravely seconded her motion in 
asking permission of the master of the house. 

“It will please his mother, and she has been the kindest 
of friends to Sarah. We must not forget that!” 

Nevertheless, the permission was granted grudgingly. 

“It is but one more drop in the cup of humiliation!” 
groaned the parent, in yielding. “Yet an ex-convict is, 
maybe, the fittest guest we could have!” 

The Dominie unclosed his lips, and then shut down 
his jaw, and clamped it fast. He did this so often in 
these latter days that lines were settling below the cheek- 
bones. 


A LONG LANE 


302 

“Mj wife will be here, of course,” he said, when he 
allowed himself to speak. “She will tell you, Mr. Van 
Dyck, how much gratified she is by your taking part in 
the service. Both of us thank you for letting Patsey’s 
son come.” 

Mrs. de Baun, eyeing him narrowly, acknowledged that 
the “guest” looked and acted the gentleman, in paying 
his respects to the hosts and to herself. She liked, too, 
his cordial salutation to Sauchy, who smiled broadly in 
thrusting her hand into his. Nor did the watcher lose 
the warm flush of the handsome face at Patsey’s entrance. 
She had the baby in her arms, and bore the burden with 
motherly tenderness. The Elder stepped to the Dominie’s 
side, one finger upon the stem of the silver bowl. The 
Pastor arose, lifted his hand and bent his head: 

“Let us pray!” 

Jane had slipped in after Patsey, and they all knelt 
together — saint and sinner, bond and free, young and old. 

Mrs. de Baun’s arm stole around the slight form she 
felt was trembling from head to foot, while the ceremony 
proceeded. 

^'Benoni! I baptise thee in the name of THE FATHER, 
THE SON, AND THE HOLY GHOST!” 

The solemn echo was still in the air when Patsey carried 
the baby over to the grandmother, and held it up to her: 

“You must be the first to kiss the little Christian !” 

It was audacious, and had the attack been less sudden, 
it might have met the reproof the grandmother would 
have thought but just, had her sense of right and wrong 
been in working-order. As it was, at sight of the tiny 
head pillowed in lace and flannel, the holy water glis- 
tening upon the forehead — the woman cried out passion- 
ately and caught the baby to her breast. Tears so blinded 
the sight of beholders that they saw but dimly the grand- 


A LONG LANE 


303 

father kneel at his wife’s side and join kisses and tears 
to hers. 

Patsey stooped to take the child, and the old couple, 
with a common impulse, held out their arms to their 
daughter. Mr. de Baun motioned silently to the rest, 
and the three were left to themselves. 

Sauchy claimed the baby, imperatively, and bore him 
off up-stairs. Mrs. de Baun and Patsey compared notes 
apart, and Mr. de Baun was thankful to relax the strain 
upon nerves and heart. Strolling into the yard, he hap- 
pened full upon Dick Walker, who was mopping his face 
with his handkerchief. He laughed, shamefacedly: 

“Never was so upset in my life !” he confessed. “Please 
Heaven, things will be a little easier for her now the old 
folks have come around ! Good afternoon, Dominie ! I 
got leave of absence for a couple of hours, and time must 
be about up. My mother will understand !” 

He lifted his hat and ran down the hill. 

The Dominie looked after him until the lithe figure dis- 
appeared at the turn beyond the bridge. 

“Now, I wonder” — ran his musings — “if my wife is right 
after all! Or, am I.^” 

If the disowned daughter and the few friends left to 
her, built fair hopes upon the reconciliation brought about 
by the dramatic episode I have described, they were speed- 
ily undeceived. The erring one was tolerated upon Chris- 
tian principles, when the excitement of the hour sub- 
sided. She might resume her place as co-worker with 
aunt and mother in the home, sit at table with the rest 
of the family, and take a share in the talk if she were 
so inclined. The attitude of her parents was distinctly 
and invariably judicial. No verbal allusion was made 
to the cause of her forfeiture of her former place and 
privileges. It was never lost sight of by father, mother 


304 


A LONG LANE 


or brothers in her presence. She kept the child out of 
their way whenever it could be done, and except when 
the work in hand obliged her to be with them, kept him 
company. 

“I don’t know that I love him better than other mothers 
love their children,” she said one day to Mrs. de Baun. 
‘‘But I have so much more to make up to him for, you 
know !” 

It was one of the very rare allusions to her peculiar 
lot that ever escaped her. Mrs. de Baun’s manner showed 
that she was ready to hear more, but that was the end 
of it. The girl’s inflexible reticence was a perplexity 
and a puzzle to all. Not even to this friend did she inti- 
mate, never so remotely, to whom she owed her fall. Sur- 
mise ran amuck on all sides. The imperturbable com- 
posure of the Corlaers went far, with a small minority, 
toward checking conjectures involving their name. Pat- 
sey’s stubborn disbelief in any tales reflecting dishonour 
upon the dead boy she had loved and championed, was 
discounted by her partiality for him and her well-known 
abhorrence of scandal. She called it “slander,” and 
frowned and scolded it down. The least scrupulous of the 
tribe she objurgated dared not interrogate her directly. 
If her steady loyalty to the ostracised fellow-woman set, 
here and there, a stealthy fire to creeping among the 
standing corn, it was usually trampled out by careless 
feet. Why seek further for fuel when they had enough.? 

It goes without saying that Sarah received no visits 
from former comrades, and made none. Her mother’s cro- 
nies never saw her when they called upon “poor Mrs. Van 
Dyck.” Jane learned to warn her of their approach, and 
Sauchy was the most savage of warders after she was 
told that her darling did not like to be seen by visitors 
other than the de Bauns and Patsey. It strained sensibly 


A LONG LANE 


305 

upon the popularitjr of the Dominie and his spouse that 
they were persistent in kind treatment of, and neigh- 
bourly offices to, the Pariah. Matrons declared it to be 
a horrible object-lesson to young people. If all Chris- 
tians imitated it, what would become of the morals of 
young men and maidens It was an open shame that 
‘Hhe creature never darkened the door of a church.” Since 
regular attendance upon the services of the sanctuary was 
a part of a Christian’s duty, how could she expect to 
be taken back into full communion if she stayed 
away ? 

Rebecca Jane put the question flatly to Patsey, as to 
an accessory after the crime. 

Patsey was hard at work upon Margarita Corlaer’s 
seventh embroidered flannel petticoat, and did not lift her 
eyes from the pattern she was shaping. 

‘‘When I lived to Millville,” she said, leisurely remi- 
niscent, “there was a woman across the street who made 
quite a fortune by minding her own business. You never 
happened to meet her — did you.?” 

“I didn’t come here to be insulted !” the mulatto snapped 
out. 

“No.? I ain’t in the habit of givin’ advice without it’s 
asked for. If I was, I’d tell you to take your spiritual 
doubts an’ difficulties straight to the Dominie. I don’t 
think much of quacks of any sort, myself. When I’m 
out of order in body or in soul, I go to a real doctor.” 

If Sarah did not go straight to the Dominie to sat- 
isfy her conscience upon the mooted point, she came as 
near to it as her diffidence would let her approach. She 
opened her heart a very little way, to the Dominie’s other 
self. 

“If it’s my duty to go to church, I will! But, you 
know how people will stare at me, and how they will 


A LONG LANE 


306 

talk afterward! I feel as if it would hill me! I have 
thought — and prayed — over it many, many times, and I 
can’t see my way clear to go — ^yet awhile! Mother tells 
everybody who questions her that I can’t leave the baby. 
That isn’t quite true, because Auntie would take care 
of him. Is it very wicked in me to dread the idea of 
meeting people?” 

“Not wicked at all, my dear! It is perfectly natural. 
I should feel just the same. But — it is not good for you 
and the baby to take no open-air exercise. You ought 
to walk every fine day. And when the weather is warmer, 
it will be good for the httle fellow to stay out-of-doors 
for several hours at a time. You can take him into the 
orchard, and spread a rug upon the grass, and let him 
roll and kick to his heart’s content. I should like to 
see him rosy. He will never get colour in his cheeks if you 
keep him shut up like a cabbage in a cellar.” 

Thenceforward, on sunny days, the boy was duly aired 
and sunned, in his mother’s arms, or in Sauchy’s stronger 
embrace. He was two months old when his guardians 
had a joyous surprise in the form of a baby-carriage 
brought by the stage from MiUville. The like had not 
been seen in Kinapeg since the Brouwer babies outgrew 
their perambulators. 

Patsey Walker followed the stage all the way from her 
house, and panted up the hill in the wake of the driver. 

“A birthday present from Me an’ Dick!” she puffed, 
before the man was out of earshot. “Ben is just two 
months old to-day. Now, he shall take his rides abroad 
like a gentleman!” 

Sauchy’s rapture was unbounded. She sat up well 
into the small hours for three nights to cut down and 
make over her white shawl and an old fine linen sheet, 
and to cover a soft pillow, with which to furnish the 


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307 

miniature coach. Mrs. de Baun’s contribution to the out- 
fit was a cloak her baby had outgrown, and Patsey’s a 
dainty cap, the work of her skilful fingers. 

Grandparents and bound-girl were attracted by the dis- 
play, the first time the equipage was drawn up to the 
side-door to await the small occupant to-be. 

Sauchy had deposited him in the prepared nest, and' 
was tucking in the covering when her brother pushed her 
aside. 

“Let me do it, Sauch! You ain’t as used to it as 
I am.” 

The tone was gentle, and he tucked in and smoothed 
the coverlet with light and loving fingers, pulling it away 
from the baby’s mouth as a final touch. 

“Leave him room to breathe! The air’s so soft and 
sweet to-day, it couldn’t hurt a week-old baby!” 

His hand brushed the child’s chin. “Ben” opened wide 
eyes into those so near him, and laughed — the gurgle of 
innocent delight never heard save from baby-lips. 

“The first time he has laughed !’ cried Patsey, in 
ecstasy. “An’ you made him do it ! Bless his dear little 
heart !” 

It was the event of the day, and sent a glow into the 
farmer’s heart he had not known since his first-born was 
laid in his arms. Of his own accord he kissed his daugh- 
ter, and cautioned her not to walk too far in the sun. 

“You must take care of yourself, if you want to keep 
him well.” 

“ ‘An’ a little child shall lead them !’ ” Bible-reading 
Patsey quoted to herself on the way home. “ ‘The word 
of the Lord abideth forever!’” 

Sauchy would let nobody draw the carriage but herself, 
and the mother walked silently beside it, more peaceful 
than she had believed she could ever be again. The hope 


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308 

of regaining her father’s love was like the caress of a soft 
hand upon her aching heart. She must ever be an out- 
cast from other homes. That she accepted as irreme- 
diable. An indelible brand, blacker than that stamped 
by divine wrath upon Cain, disfigured her for life. She 
could not get away from the terrible fact. Strolling over 
the orchard grass, dappled by the April sunshine falling 
through the sparsely-clothed boughs, she recalled, without 
apparent sequence (was it a hundred years ago, or less 
than one year?), the June night when Will Corlaer had led 
her away from the group clustered about the front door 
in the moonlight, to “look at the North Star;” when 
she had leaned upon her father’s knee, his hand playing in 
her hair while Norman Lang sang “Mary of Argyle;” 
when the doting father had praised her for “knowing 
more than the teacher;” the night she had said — ^“You 
see, I have never had a sorrow!” 

She reckoned herself the happiest girl alive, then. If 
there were one more wretched than she upon the earth 
now, God pity her ! She did not know that she had spoken 
the prayer audibly until Sauchy stooped to peer under 
the hood of the carriage. 

“Boy?” she queried, solicitously. 

Sarah shook her head and forced a smile. What a 
blessed thing it would be for her if she had but one imag- 
inable source of anxiety! She aroused herself now, to 
notice that the carriage lurched jerkily upon the uneven 
turf. At the upper end of the orchard a gate gave upon 
the high road, and, a few yards higher up on the other 
side of the way, was another gate opening into pasture- 
lands where the going would be smoother. Sauchy nodded 
acquiescence to the suggestion of the changed route. She 
perceived, too, that the precious passenger had been jos- 
tled somewhat out of place in the passage among the 


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309 


hummocks, and that the pillows had slipped aside. Out- 
side of the gate she halted to rectify the disorder. The 
fence was masked, for a long way up and down, by a 
hedge of self-planted savins. In the shelter of this Sauchy 
took the child up and handed him to his mother while she 
should rearrange his bed. Had an artist chanced that 
way he would have lingered longingly over the picture 
thrown into relief by the dark-green background. 

Mrs. de Baun and Patsey had observed without com- 
ment that Sarah had worn no bright colours for months 
past — only black and white. She had put on a white 
gown that morning, the weather being unseasonably warm, 
and her straw hat had fallen back upon her shoulders. 
The boy was evidently in a holiday mood. She never 
looked sad when his gaze was upon her. Nor had one 
of the tears that were her meat night and day, ever 
fallen upon his face. She had a fancy that they would 
^‘not be good for him.” Patsey had told her once that to 
‘‘cry over a baby would bring bad luck.” 

Heavy-hearted as she was, she smiled down at him when 
he unclosed sleepy eyelids and recognised who held him. 
He was a wise baby for his months, and already knew 
both of his votaries. 

“Look, Aunty ! he almost laughed again !” 

Sauchy’s tall, gaunt form straightened up so abruptly 
as to scare the horse ridden by the foremost of a group 
of equestrians, whose coming was muffled by the dusty 
highway. 

“Look out, there ! youT^ shrilled a woman’s voice. 

Carrie Corlaer’s mount was dancing sideways, across 
the road, unwilling to pass the carriage and the appa- 
rition beside it. Her attendant had seized the bridle, 
and was speaking soothingly to the frightened animal. 
The halt gave the rest of the party time to join them. 


310 


A LONG LANE 


Sarah shrank so far back into her screen that the stiff 
evergreens scratched her cheeks. 

Rhoda Brouwer, and a man whom Sarah did not know, 
were close upon Carrie and her betrothed, and not far 
behind rode Margarita and Norman Lang. 

The six were massed for a few dizzy seconds before the 
eyes of the cringing spectator. All saw her. It was im- 
possible not to espy what had caused the violent plunge 
of the horse and the rider’s fight with him. 

It was over in a half-minute. As one fascinated by the 
Evil Eye, the girl-mother met the rapid scrutiny that 
swept her and her companions. The women’s stare was 
keen and scornful ; the stranger laughed lightly ; the other 
men raised their hats ; George Adrain with a merry smile 
at the awkward rustics who had put his lady-love in peril. 
Norman Lang bowed gravely, with no more sign of recog- 
nition than Adrain had showed. 

They were gone ! The only token of their passing was 
the cloud of dust floating in the sunshine. 

Sauchy reared herself to her fullest height and shook 
her fist after the party, a torrent of Dutch and mongrel 
expletives rushing from her foaming lips. Then she 
stooped to gather up handfuls of dust, and hurled it after 
them. Without entering into the deeper significance of 
the behaviour of the ill-mannered women, she had seen 
that they sneered at her best-beloved, and passed her by 
without sign of recognition. If curses could have killed, 
not one of the six would have reached home alive. 

A low moaning quelled the storm. Sarah had sunk 
to the ground and lay groaning, as in mortal pain. Not 
wholly unconscious, for she had not loosed her hold of 
the baby. But she did not speak as her aunt took him 
away from her and laid him back in the carriage. Sauchy 
had treated fainting women before, and did not dally for 


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a moment now. There was a spring in the pasture, and 
she jumped the fence, instead of taking the longer way 
the gate. She soaked her handkerchief and her apron 
in the water and sped back to her helpless charges, with 
the dripping cloths. 

The hard-featured visage bent over her, as the dark- 
ness cleared from Sarah’s vision at the douche of cold 
water upon forehead and cheeks, hurried the return of 
her scattered senses. 

“I didn’t hurt the baby — did 1.^”’ she faltered, trying 
to rise. 

‘‘Boy good ! Sleep !” 

“That is right. Thank you !” She closed her eyes and 
was still until aroused by the bustle of Sauchy’s dragging 
the carriage into the orchard. She returned when it 
was accomplished, and the boy left in the shade. 

“Get up !” she ordered, passing an arm under her niece 
and raising her to her feet. “Back soon!” a motion of 
her head in the direction the riders had taken. 

Emphasis and pantomime told as forcibly as words 
could have done what treatment the insolent crew might 
expect at her hands. 

By slow and painful degrees, they retraced the route 
to the house. Slowly and with difficulty, Sarah told her 
mother that the “walk and the heat had been too much 
for her. She would feel better for a rest in her room.” 

Mrs. Van Dyck offered a bit of advice. 

“Leave the baby down here I He can lie in his carriage 
under the cherry-tree, and Sauchy watch him while she’s 
doin’ her darnin’. You ought not to nurse him while 
you are so tired. You look fair beat out!” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


M argarita CORLAER was an early visitor to 
the Parsonage on the forenoon succeeding the in- 
cident recorded in our last chapter. Repose of manner 
was never a characteristic of the vivacious young woman. 
To-day she was a- thrill with joyous excitement. 

“I have so much to tell you that I don’t know where 
to begin!” was the prelude. She had plumped herself 
down in the easiest chair in the room and squared knees 
and elbows for work. “In the first place, Mr. de Baun 
will have a formal call or letter from Norman some time 
to-day, asking him to perform the ceremony on the third 
of May. That is barely a fortnight off. If that isn’t 
‘wedding haste,’ I don’t know the meaning of the words. 
You may well look surprised! Things have happened 
so thick and fast, I am positively dizzy! You haven’t 
heard, I suppose, that Norman has received the appoint- 
ment of Professor of Chemistry in Volumnia University? 
He met the President of the Board of Trustees in Ger- 
many last winter, who took a great fancy to him. They 
travelled together for a week or so, and the upshot of 
the matter is that Norman is to fill the chair the late 
incumbent was good enough to vacate by dying. This 
settled, and the mission on which Norman went abroad 
accomplished — to Father’s infinite satisfaction, I may add 
— there is no conceivable reason why we should not be 
married out-of-hand. It will be a very quiet affair, of 
course, in the circumstances — being in mourning and all 

312 


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313 


that — but we must put up with the inevitable. It is to be 
a double wedding, and as I tell mother, the three fami- 
lies and relatives will fill the house to overflowing, and 
it won’t be so stupid after all. 

“She ought to be glad to get it all off her hands — ^poor 
dear! Norman was so shocked to see how changed she 
is, that he could hardly speak. He says she looks twenty 
years older than when he went away, and that Father 
is awfully broken. That is the worst of having an only 
son. He leaves such a gap if he dies. 

“We have crowded on a full head of steam in conse- 
quence of Norman’s impatience. He takes possession of 
the chair the first week of June, and the wedding-tour 
will be short enough as it is. We shall board until fall. 

“I am carried away with delight at the idea of living 
in a big city. 

“Father has promised to see that my share of Grand- 
ma’s estate is put into available shape, so we can use it. 
Professors’ salaries are miserably meagre, everywhere. I 
am very ambitious for Norman, but not more than he is 
for himself. Hs aspires to become the President of a 
college some day. And to make scientific discoveries and 
write books about them — and all that. You must read 
the series he is preparing for The Scientific American 
when the papers come out. I showed you the article he 
wrote for the Meridian Magazine, you may remember? 
And how fine Mr. de Baun thought it was? Sometimes, 
I can’t believe that I am to join my fortunes with such 
a man.” 

She blinked away a tear of genuine feeling. 

“I congratulate you with all my heart!” The hostess 
slipped in her quota to the dialogue. “Mr. Lang has 
unusual talent, and qualities of disposition and manner 
that endear him to all who come under his influence. 


314 


A LONG LANE 


You may reasonably anticipate a brilliant career for 
him. He left his mark upon our neighbourhood. We 
shall miss him for many a long day.” 

Margarita darted forward to drop a kiss, like the 
peck of a bird, upon the cheek nearest her. 

‘Wou dear thing! I was sure of your sympathy and 
good wishes. Every rose has a thorn, you know, and I 
must say I was disappointed at the way in which Rhoda 
Brouwer received my invitation to be one of my brides- 
maids. Would you believe it.i^ She took it quite as a mat- 
ter of course, although she was ‘somewhat surprised,’ 
she said, ‘at the early double wedding, our affliction being 
so recent.’ It sounds uncharitable, but I couldn’t help 
wondering if she were not a bit jealous.'’ Not that she 
ever wanted Norman — but it does seem rather unfair that 
both of us are to be married — and married so well, when 
she and Ruth have no prospect of it, so far as we can 
judge. 

“To be sure mellowing in accent and expression 

in the desire to give her friend the benefit of the circum- 
stances — “she had a man from the city with her in our 
horseback ride. A Mr. Carson, rather nice-looking, and 
with the manners of a gentleman — so far as I could 
judge.” 

“I have met him. As you say, he appears to be pleas- 
ant and gentlemanly. Who were in your party.? It was 
a fine day for horseback exercise.” 

“There were six of us; Norman and I; Carrie and 
George Adrain; Rhoda and Mr. Carson. We rode ten 
miles down the Valley, crossed the mountain and returned 
through Meadowvale. And by the way — ” interrupting 
herself sharply — ‘Uuch a disagreeable thing happened on 
our way back ! Just outside of the Van Dycks’ orchard- 
gate we happened right upon Sarah, holding her child in 


A LONG LANE 


315 

her arms! Imagine it! And that awful Sauchy, fussing 
with a baby-cart, or something of the sort. They were 
hidden by the bushes until we were close to them! Car- 
rie’s horse was frightened by the old woman or the cart — 
or both together!” laughing. “I didn’t blame him, for 
she looked like the witch of Endor! She glared at us 
as if she wanted to bite us. 

“Sarah slunk back into the savins, but I could see that 
she was pale and scared to death. George quieted the 
horse in a minute and we rode on. You can fancy it was 
as awkward as anything could be. I haven’t set eyes upon 
that girl for months. Not since she was — laid up! I 
did hope she would have the decency to keep herself out 
of sight forever. I was furious with her for making a 
show of her shame on the public road! As a matter of 
course, we pretended not to recognise her. But that 
hag of an aunt could not be ignored. George asked Car- 
rie if ‘that wasn’t the scare-crow that burst into the din- 
ing-room the night Will carried her off to look for a lost 
child.?’ Carrie said ‘Yes,’ and changed the subject. She 
suspected he had heard the scandal, and guessed who 
Sarah was. Norman behaved splendidly! Father had 
told him the horrid story, so Mother says. Naturally, 
Norman and I can’t allude to it. But I could see he was 
distressed at sight of the party. 

“He was kindness itself to the girl, and indeed to the 
entire family. He consulted Father last night as to the 
propriety of calling upon them. Father agreed with him 
that it would be very painful, all around, to see them in 
such changed circumstances, but thought it would be a 
kindness to those two poor old people. He advised him 
to write to Mrs. Van Dyck, asking when it would be con- 
venient for her and her husband to see him, and express- 
ing a wish to meet them again, for the sake of old times — 


A LONG LANE 


316 

and all that. He can’t very well stay away. He wouldn’t 
wound them for the world. But there are Sauchy and 
Sarah !” 

She laughed again. 

‘‘He need have no apprehensions on that head,” replied 
Mrs. de Baun, dryly. The girl’s flippancy grated upon 
her sensibilities. “He is not likely to see the aunt. It is 
certain he will not see the niece. She is never out of her 
room in the evening, or at any other time when visitors 
may call. She is a confirmed recluse.” 

“I wish I could drop a hint to Norman to that effect. 
But that is not to be thought of — in our present rela- 
tions. Odd — wasn’t it.'^ that I should have tried so hard 
to keep that girl straight — and failed so signally.'^” 

“Very strange — and unspeakably sad !” Mrs. de Baun’s 
gravity deepened with the progress of the narrative. “I 
am more sorry for the poor, misguided child than for any 
one else alive. I cannot trust myself to talk of it. I hope 
Mr. Lang will go to see the friends who made a home 
for him for so long. It will be a comfort to the father 
and mother, and it may tend to strengthen the influence 
he exerted over the boys while he was one of the family. 
How long a visit does he pay to you.?” 

The diversion was effectual. For the next hour, the 
bride-elect catalogued and described in detail her ward- 
robe, and the contents of the linen-chest stocked by her 
mother in accordance with the good old Holland custom; 
rattled off the list of to-be-invited guests ; the plans for 
the wedding-feast, etcetera, encouraged by what she mis- 
took for rapt interest on the part of the confidante. 

“And all the while, I had the picture in my mind of 
that other girl, hiding from the sight of her kind in the 
wayside thicket!” she told her husband when the ordeal 
was over. “It is the first of numberless trials through 


A LONG LANE 


317 


which she will have to pass — God help her! I can think 
how the cold stare of the women she had not seen in so 
long, cut her to the soul. It prefigured what she must 
endure for the remainder of her life. I could pray that 
it may be short. And she was so grateful for the little 
wagon! Patsey told me of it last night. I am afraid 
she will be afraid to go out with it again. I must say that 
I am disappointed in Norman Lang. Margarita says 
none of them spoke to the two women by the fence. I 
thought him a truer man! He might have recollected 
the kindness he received from the Van Dycks in the old 
times.” 

“I do the fellow more justice than to take Margarita’s 
words without a pinch of salt,” the Dominie said, stub- 
bornly. “I believe he bowed, if he did not speak. He is 
no cad ! I shall make it my business to establish that fact 
at the earliest opportunity.” 

He had it before the day was over. 

Standing in the “Confessional,” an hour before sunset, 
trimming away the brittle sticks of last year’s hop-vines, 
and marking with satisfaction the thriftiness of new 
shoots, he heard a springy step upon the path leading to 
the gate behind him, and recognised it before turning to 
meet the returned wanderer. The latter was in fine physi- 
cal trim, and in spirits becoming a prospective bride- 
groom. He had not needed the external polish imparted 
to the educated by foreign travel. But he looked more 
the man and gentleman for the experience of the past 
half-year. The sunny smile and frank friendliness were 
the same that had won hearts from his youth up. The 
Dominie could have taken him in his arms, as he held 
him in feeling to his heart, in the cordial handclasp which 
was the warmest greeting permitted by American So- 
cial Usages. 


A LONG LANE 


318 

Lang had but half-an-hour to spare, he stated at once, 
with rising colour that brightened the smile. 

“So, we will dispense with preliminaries, and proceed 
to business.” 

“A visit my wife had this morning enables me to ex- 
pedite that still further,” was the rejoinder. “I went 
through the operation myself, a dozen years ago. The 
dull-witted parson did not abridge the agony by so much 
as a half-syllable. The recollection inclines me to be 
merciful with you. I am to make you the happiest man 
living, upon the third of May. With all my heart, my 
dear fellow! And may your married life be as bright 
and peaceful as mine has been !” 

Lang put out his hand impulsively: 

“I thank you from the depths of my soul! I am glad 
you are to have the office, and no other man. And you 
could ask nothing more of Heaven for me than what you 
have implied.” 

They sat down then, and talked of other things of 
interest to both, until Norman glanced at the westering 
sun. 

“How often I have watched it go down over that 
straight-browed mountain! It is good to see it again! 
But it means now that I am due elsewhere than here. 
May I pay my respects to Mrs. de Baun before I 
go?” 

The host arrested him : 

“May I ask if you have called yet upon the Van 
Dycks.?” 

A shadow swept over the clear eyes. The lips tight- 
ened in pain before Norman answered with feeling that 
did him honour: 

“I have written to ask if I might perform that har- 
rowing duty this evening. It will be such a trial to us 


A LONG LANE 


319 


all that I would shirk it if I could consistently with my 
sense of obligation to old friends. You think that I 
ought to go — don’t you.^^” 

“I do, undoubtedly! Being what you are, you could 
do no less. You will probably — I might say, ‘certainly’ — 
see Mr. and Mrs. Van Dyck, and possibly the sons. No- 
body else. The hateful story is familiar to you, of course. 
I have no disposition to enter into particulars beyond 
assuring you, who were her teacher and friend, in by-gone 
days, that there never was a more sincere penitent. You 
saw her yesterday, I hear?” 

“Surely she — they — said nothing?” — began Lang, in 
surprise. 

The Dominie anticipated the rest. 

“Margarita mentioned the meeting to my wife — as 
was right and natural. I was somewhat sorry that, in the 
surprise of the encounter, the party passed the two 
women without any sign of recognition ” 

“I beg your pardon! You are mistaken there. Adrain 
and I raised our hats, as we would to any acquaintance. 
Had I been alone — or with yourself, Mr. de Baun,” — a 
slight and graceful inclination of the head implying more 
than the words expressed — “I should have stopped and 
spoken to them. I owe too much to that family to slight 
them, even in seeming. As you say, the subject is ex- 
quisitely painful, and discussion would do no good. I 
have few correspondents here, and those were not likely 
to write to me of such things. I had not heard of it until 
I landed in this country. You may imagine my horror 
and incredulity! 

“But time presses! May I see Mrs. de Baun for five 
minutes ?” 

She met them upon the front porch, and he would not 
enter the house. 


320 


A LONG LANE 


If he had, they would have missed the sight of the 
most stirring event that broke the even current of Kina- 
peg during that month. 

The de Bauns had attended the visitor to the gate, 
and were exchanging last words with him over it, when 
far down the straight turnpike in the direction of the 
village, they heard the thunder of hoofs and the roll of 
wheels upon the bridge. A dog-cart they knew for Rhoda 
Brouwer’s, was lunging madly up the road. Two figures 
were in it, and the blooded horse between the shafts 
was beyond control. Afterward it transpired that the 
reins had been carelessly buckled and came loose in 
Rhoda’s hands, one slipping from her hold to the ground. 
Her companion was her father, but no mortal power could 
manage the frenzied animal after the flapping rein struck 
him. 

Instinctively, Mr. de Baun and Norman rushed toward 
the middle of the road in the wild hope of checking the 
flight, but before the cart reached them a man had leaped 
like a greyhound from the field on the other side of the 
way, and thrown himself upon the flying horse. He 
grasped the bit with both hands, and hung to it with 
force that brought the animal to his knees. His captor 
was under him, but the desperate clutch upon the crea- 
ture’s mouth did not relax. The two men from the Par- 
sonage and three others who were passing, flew to the res- 
cue. The occupants of the cart were unhurt, and, with 
rare presence of mind, joined the band engaged in freeing 
their deliverer from the tangle of legs, head and harness 
binding him down. Not until he was dragged to the side 
of the road, did the Pastor recognise Dick Walter. 

Rhoda sat flat upon the turf and took the dusty, bleed- 
ing head upon her lap, wiping away the grime with her 
handkerchief, tears raining down her cheeks. One man 


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321 


raced off for the doctor; in the distance Mrs. de Baun 
and Rebecca Jane appeared with water and restoratives, 
and Mr. Brouwer’s first connected words were an order 
to a servant from his own house to go for Mrs. Walker. 
By the time Patsey gained the scene of the disaster, her 
son, still unconscious, was being borne upon an impromptu 
stretcher, constructed of a barn-gate and blankets, to the 
Brouwer mansion. 

There he lay in the state guest-chamber for three weeks, 
while Nature and Dr. Ten Eyck were busy mending a 
broken leg, a gash of the scalp, and bruises without 
number. 

Timothy O. held to no half-way measures in any under- 
taking. This lad had saved his life and his daughter’s 
life and limb. For this service no adequate compensation 
could be made. He — and his — could, would and must 
testify their gratitude by every conceivable means. He 
would have pensioned Patsey for life if she would have 
allowed it. Receiving (and honouring her for it) her 
gentle but decided refusal to accept alms while she was 
able to earn her living, he set his strenuous wits to work 
upon the more hopeful task of forwarding the interests 
of ‘That noble young man” whose praises he never wearied 
of chanting. 

He paid daily visits to the state bed-room — short at 
first, and longer as “the boy” regained strength and 
ought to be amused, and convinced himself that there was 
“fine stuff” in him. Stuff too fine to be wasted in a Kina- 
peg office, even in the employ of Wilhelmus Corlaer. 
Moreover, the fellow ought to have a chance to prove his 
mettle in a new environment. There were meddlesome 
and malicious gossips in this township who would be 
ready to throw mud at him if he ever got a creditable 
footing in the world. He could never do himself justice 


322 A LONG LANE 

here — confound the uncharitableness of small places, 
everywhere ! 

It would be a waste of space and time to relate that 
disquisition and objurgation and castle-building went on 
most vigorously in the third-story “study” diagonally 
opposite the house. It is as unnecessary to add that 
the listener, albeit Dick Walker’s fast, and upon occa- 
sions, fierce friend — was, now and then, bored by 
the boom of the big voice when it heaped illustra- 
tion upon assertion in reminiscent details of his own 
rise and progress. 

Dick, paler and thinner than of old, but light of heart 
and sanguine in spirit, went to the office and bent every 
energy to the accustomed task. The Corlaer sisters were 
married and away. The water-fall and the trip-hammer 
kept time in sonorous measures; business grew brisk and 
slackened by turns, and pay-day rolled around in hebdom- 
adal order. 

The young man’s outward world was in nothing dif- 
ferent from that in which he had lived and toiled before 
the “accident” that laid him up, with breath and senses 
beaten out of him, in the state and pomp of the Brouwer 
guest-chamber. But the monologues his host styled “con- 
versations,” had had their effect. It was not the first 
time the expediency of a change of scene and action had 
fretted itself into his mind. He was growing fast intel- 
lectually, and his outlook widened steadily. Sometimes 
the strait confines of the treadmill strangled him. And 
he had glimpses through the door Mr. Brouwer had set 
ajar, that drove him wild with ungratified longing. 

All this he poured out to his mother in a turbulent 
flood on the night succeeding the momentous day of 
Timothy O.’s visit to the office in Mr. Corlaer’s absence. 
He was equipped with a definite proposition to the clerk 


A LONG LANE 


323 

which, he said, had been submitted to his present employer 
and received his sanction. 

The New York branch of the business in which Mr. 
Brouwer retained a controlling interest, although his 
son was the manager, had established a house in Buffalo, 
N. Y., in which the senior partner believed young Walker 
could be useful and make for himself a career. Dick had 
mastered the project in full, but he did not vex his moth- 
er’s unlettered soul with particulars or general prin- 
ciples. Enough for her to know that, if the arrangement 
were concluded, he would have to leave home and her for a 
term of months. By and by, he would, of course, send for 
her. 

“It would not be home without you,” he said, with a 
quaver in his voice. “If I ever make anything of my- 
self, it will be your work.” 

“You will have a wife some day, who may not want an 
old frump like me in her house.” 

Patsey had been swallowing her tears ever since the 
story began. She succeeded in the trick so well that her 
bantering tone was quite natural. 

She was utterly stunned by the quiet rejoinder. 

“There will be one woman in the world for me — if I 
live a hundred years ! And she loves you already.” 

The mother gazed at him with frightened eyes. 

“My boy ! my boy ! you cavbt mean it !” 

“I never meant anything more truly. Mother! We 
won’t talk about it now. But, when I go away, I leave 
her to you. Take care of her for me.” 

He kissed her silently, and went out into the night. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


T WO years and three months after the private christ- 
ening in the front parlour of the homestead, the 
countryside gathered in force to attend Sauchy Van 
Dyck’s funeral. 

The last stage of her life was characteristically brief. 
She had done a long day’s ironing; lent a strong hand 
to the tasks in which she was drilling Jane’s successor; 
dished supper; set sponge for the morrow’s baking; un- 
dressed Ben, and laid him in his crib (a privilege she 
would resign to no one) and sought her own bed, ap- 
parently in her usual health. 

Not hearing her moving about the house at her ac- 
customed hour, Sarah went to her room, and found her 
still ‘‘asleep.” 

“Life must have been extinct for several hours,” pro- 
nounced Dr. Ten Eyck. “The indications are that dis- 
solution supervened upon cerebral hemorrhage.” 

The sister-in-law added — “She never wasted time in 
doin’ anythin’.” 

She lay at rest at last in the archway separating front 
and back parlours. Patsey Walker and Mrs. de Baun 
had aided Sarah in arranging the wealth of flowers gath- 
ered from many gardens. They garlanded the arch into 
a bower, and wove a frame for the coffin. A great clus- 
ter of blush-roses hid the ghastly white cotton gloves into 
which the undertaker’s wife, who was his unsalaried as- 
sistant, had thrust the toil-hardened hands. They had 
“laid her out” in the black silk dress she had worn to 

324 


A LONG LANE 


3^5 


funerals, and on Christmas and Thanksgiving, for twenty 
years. Sarah’s loving care had wound the snow-white 
hair into a halo. 

‘‘A crown of glory!” whispered she, as Mrs. de Baun 
remarked how it softened and refined the rugged fea- 
tures. ‘‘She is wearing one now in Heaven.” 

Parlours, sitting-room and lower hall were filled with a 
reverent throng. 

One look at the moveless sleeper, transformed out of 
their recognition by the great peace resting upon brow 
and lips, like the mysterious shining of an unseen Pres- 
ence, sent the most careless back to their seats, awed 
and silent. 

The family was secluded from general observation in 
the roomy upper hall. Mrs. de Baun and Patsey had 
taken their places with the mourners, without asking per- 
mission. They belonged there, as a matter of right. Ben, 
arrayed in a white frock, sat upon Patsey’s bombazine 
knee, chastened into silence by the prevailing sadness he 
could not comprehend. He had never seen his mother 
cry until yesterday when she tried to tell him that “Auntie 
had gone up into the sky, to get a beautiful home ready 
for them, when God called them, too. He had sent for 
her, because she was so good that the dear angels could 
not spare her any longer. He must be a good boy, and 
never forget her.” 

He was a bright little fellow, and his mother had 
trained him diligently in Bible-stories and Bible-teach- 
ings. But the human vocabulary that would convey the 
sublime truths of immortality and the “glory to be re- 
vealed” to the unclothed and unfettered soul, is pitifully 
meagre. Ben gleamed just enough to enable him to divine 
that he must be quiet and not ask questions until Mamma 
had time to tell him what it all meant. Patsey had 


A LONG LANE 


326 

brought him a woolly lamb Dick had bought for him in 
New York, on his way to the funeral. Next to ‘‘Aunt 
Patsey,” Ben loved “Dicky” better than any other visi- 
tor to the house. If he would behave very well, she would 
take him to her house to supper that evening, to see his 
friend who was going away to-morrow morning. The 
prospect secured silence and propriety of behaviour for 
the next hour. As an additional bribe — disapproved of 
by his grandmother, although of this he was in blissful ig- 
norance — he was allowed to hold the woolly lamb while the 
services proceeded. 

He had been used to “regular attendance” upon family 
worship, and recognised instinctively the tone in which 
the Dominie stationed below in the well of the staircase, 
said — “Let us pray!” Patsey was moved by the child’s 
ready action in slipping from her lap to his knees, and 
not scandalised that he carried the woolly lamb, still 
hugged in his arms. But when he would have lifted up 
his voice in concert with those down-stairs, in the funeral 
hymn, she clapped her hand over his mouth, and his 
mother said in his ear — “Don’t sing now, dear ! I will tell 
you all about it by-and-by !” 

The big blue eyes brimmed with tears. He had a mar- 
vellously quick ear for music, and loved it with all his 
soul. 

“Can carry a tune as well as you could!” the grand- 
father had boasted to the Dominie. “But so could Sarah 
at his age! She and I used to sing together when she 
was two-and-a-half.” 

Ben’s spirit was dashed by the prohibition, but he did 
not cry outright as his grandmother had feared he would, 
in seeing the by-play. She admitted inly, that the boy 
“had been taught to mind, for all he was so spoiled by 
Sauchy.” 


A LONG LANE 


3'27 


She had never tolerated the idolatry of her husband’s 
sister for her niece and her niece’s illegitimate child. In 
the virtuous matron’s sight, the righteous would condone 
iniquity by a show of decent civility to the transgressor. 
She had never temporized with the “exceeding sinfulness” 
of her flesh-and-blood. The ice-wall dividing them had 
thinned at the christening-service, only to congeal with 
second thoughts of Christian duty and parental respon- 
sibility. 

Mother and daughter were no nearer to one another 
to-day than they were three years ago. In her prayers 
and to her own soul, the mother honestly termed her con- 
stant remembrance of the sin and of the penalty it mer- 
ited, “bearing testimony to the truth of her religion.” In 
which pious persuasion the excellent dame has more sym- 
pathisers than I care to speak of. 

The text of the funeral sermon was — ^^She hath done 
what she could,*' 

The Dominie never indulged in flights of rhetoric. He 
could not have done this now. Assuming that all present 
were familiar with the circumstances under which the 
words were spoken by the Master, he came at once to 
the pith of the subject they suggested — the range and 
the limit of human endeavour. Dismissing generalities in 
four sentences, he applied the plaudit of the All-wise and 
All-merciful to the life of the woman whose death had 
called them to the house of mourning. 

“You all knew her. Afflicted from her birth by mental 
infirmity that shut her out from the sphere occupied by 
the average woman, the loves and activities that make up 
the sum of the life of the wife and mother — she yet filled 
her narrowed circuit of affection and duty full! Whatso- 
ever her hand found to do was done with her might. She 
had a great, warm heart, and kindness flowed out from 


A LONG LANE 


328 

it upon the suffering who came within her reach. So far 
as she knew what was right, she did it. Fearless and 
faithful, she shirked no hardships; she feared nothing 
that opposed her effort to set wrong right. She loved 
helpless children; where she saw want and pain, she 
wrought with all her strength to relieve it. Where she 
loved, it was with her whole heart and soul. ‘Greater 
love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life 
for his friend,’ declared the God-man Who proved His 
love for sinners upon the Cross. This great love this 
woman had for those of her blood and name, and for the 
few who saw through the outward seeming into the caged 
beautiful soul within, and permitted her to love them. I 
speak that which I know, of her capacity for affection and 
sacrifice. She never spared herself when there was work 
to be done for the comfort and happiness of others. Day 
by day, month by month, year by year, she put into dili- 
gent practice the second commandment which the Mas- 
ter pronounced to be ‘like unto the First and Great law’ 
of life. ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’ She 
went further — she loved and served those about her as 
she never loved and served herself. To the utmost of 
her ability, she did what she could. How many of us 
could look into the face of Him before whom all hearts are 
naked and open — as she does to-day — and plead, ‘O 
Lord! so far as I knew my duty to Thee and to my fel- 
low-creatures, I did it?’ 

“He knows why she did not openly confess herself His 
servant and, calling herself by His name, let all know 
why she laboured and endured and loved. So far as she 
could know Him, she obeyed and served. The angels 
are her teachers now — blessed be His holy name ! 

“Dear friends ! shall we not take to our hearts the les- 
son of this beloved sister’s life, and strive to win the 


A LONG LANE 


329 


plaudit which, I devoutly and joyfully believe, she has 
heard before now — ‘Well done, good and faithful servant! 
thou hast been faithful over a few things. I will make 
thee ruler over many things. Enter into the joy of thy 
Lord!’ 

“The services will be concluded at the grave.” 

Above the subdued bustle of the professional prepara- 
tions for the removal of the remains below-stairs, arose a 
childish wail : 

“Mamma! mamma! don’t cwy! I will be vewy good!” 

And more than one listener murmured with answering 
tears : “Poor little fellow ! he has lost his best friend !” 

Rhoda Brouwer Carson’s voice echoed it, in shaking 
hands with Dick Walker outside of the door where the 
crowd divided to let the mourners pass to the carriages. 

“It was beautiful to see her devotion to him !” she pur- 
sued, feelingly. “I thought, while Mr. de Baun was speak- 
ing, how willingly she would have laid down her life 
for him — and for Sarah too, for that matter. There is 
nobody to take her place for them. 

^^Must you go back, to-morrow.?” in the same rapid 
“aside” but with a changed manner. “I am here for a few 
days. You must run in to see us ! Father will never for- 
give you if you don’t !” 

Dick’s mind was too full of graver matters for mus- 
ings upon the turn of Fortune’s wheel which had made it 
natural and proper for the daughter of the great man of 
the Valley to invite him to her home, as she might her 
equal. Had he reflected, furthermore, that he was more 
nearly on a par with her, socially, than her father had 
been with regard to his employer’s daughter when he 
entered his store as a porter, forty-odd years ago — he 
might have been amused, for Dick had a fair sense of 
humour. 


330 


A LONG LANE 


He had eyes and thought now only for the slender 
black-robed figure appearing in the doorway. Her father 
and mother preceded her ; her brothers slouched lazily be- 
hind her. Dick’s face burned to the roots of his bared 
curls at the unmanly neglect. Disdainful of wondering 
eyes, he darted forward and handed her into the mourn- 
ing coach before the tardy undertaker could perform the 
office. Patsey and Mrs. de Baun were close to the ill- 
mannered brothers, and he caught a glance of warning 
from one, and of cordial approval from the other. En- 
couraged by it, he stood at the lady’s side until the next 
coach moved up, then passed her into it. She breathed 
a word in his ear in accepting the courtesy: 

‘‘You are a brave, true man, Dick! I am proud of 
you I” 

His mother said the same in effect to him after their 
return from the church-yard. Dinner was over and they 
sat in the shade of their own grape-vine, overlooking the 
river. At the right of the old stone house was a field 
of clover in pinkest bloom. 

Such affluence of perfume arose from the nodding 
globes that, as Patsey said, “one could almost see the 
scent in the air.” Dick had his pipe; his mother her 
knitting. 

“Shirt for Ben’s winter outfit,” she explained. “I be- 
gan in time, so’s to be sure to have the set done before 
frost. I’m havin’ quite a lazy spell for me this summer. 
Margarita Lang was at her father’s last week, fine as a 
fiddle an’ gay as a lark. Carrie, she comes home about 
every month. Carrie’s baby needed the salt air and they 
are stayin’ at a hotel at Long Branch for a spell. Mar- 
garita talks of the White Mountains soon after Com- 
mencement. Havin’ no baby to tie her down, she can 
scamper about the country as she likes. You wouldn’t 


A LONG LANE 


331 


catch either of them puttin’ herself out of the way to 
come to the funeral of an old neighbour! It’s done the 
Van Dycks no end of good to see the respect paid to the 
family. The old man was tickled out of his boots when I 
told him you had travelled all night on a-purpose to at- 
tend the funeral. I should think he’d be ashamed of those 
hulkin’, no-mannered sons of his’n — lettin’ their only sis- 
ter walk out of the house by herself, and, but for you, 
climb into the carriage with nobody to lend a hand! I 
was proud that you stepped forward as you did! Mrs. 
de Baun spoke of it afterward.” 

“It was an act of common politeness. Any man with a 
spark of right feeling would have done the same.” He 
laid down his pipe and kissed her : “Mother ! she is lovelier 
than ever! She is a saint purified by the fires. I heard 
something to-day that makes me impatient. The Van 
Dycks are going to sell the farm and house and move, 
bag and baggage, to Millville. The boys swear they are 
sick to death of farming, and a cousin of theirs who is 
in the lumber business in Millville wants them to put in 
capital and go into it with him. That is why the place is 
to be sold. The old man is as weak as water at the best, 
and ready to agree to anything the boys propose. He is 
too feeble to run the farm alone, and his wife has fretted 
her senses out worrying over her troubles. 

“But I am teUing you what you know already.?” 

A vehement nod assented. Patsey caught up the word : 

“Neither of them has ever been the same since Case 
ran away. Everythin’ has gone crooked. The farm 
didn’t pay, an’ the mill burned down, and Case had made 
away with more money than they knew of at first. 
There’s a mortgage on the farm — an’ now Sauchy’s gone, 
things will all be at sixes an’ sevens. Sarah — poor child ! 
works her fingers’ ends off to stop leaks, but I don’ be- 


332 


A LONG LANE 


lieve one of those lazy louts of brothers has earn’t the 
salt to his bread for three years back. Another thing — 
I’m sure, as if she had told me, that Mrs. Van Dyck knows 
in her heart that the skeleton found on the mountain over 
yonder was her son. I am positive Sarah thinks so. Sev- 
eral times I’ve found flowers laid on the grave in the pau- 
per’s section of the church-yard, and once when I’d spied 
her stealin’ away, the back way, the flowers were as fresh 
as if they had been just picked, an’ I knew the roses for 
the same that grow in the Van Dycks’ garden. Of course, 
I’ve never said a word of it before, an’ as for speakin’ 
to her, or openin’ her mouth to me on the subject — that 
couldn’t be! She’d be cut into bits before she’d let on 
about anything she felt it was right to keep to herself. 
She’s proved thatT^ 

‘‘Like the brick she is 1 I’ve done some pretty hard 
thinking to-day. The hardest since I saw how she was 
treated by those who ought to be her protectors against 
the rest of the world, no matter what happens. When I 
put her into the carriage on the way to see her best friend 
buried out of her sight, it was all I could do to keep from 
taking her in my arms and carrying her off to a home 
where she would be respected and loved, as she deserves 
to be. I registered a vow four years ago, that if it ever 
lay in my power to prove my gratitude for her angelic 
treatment of me — a skulking jail-bird who dared not look 
a respectable man or woman in the face — ^I’d do it to 
the best of my ability. And please God, I’U keep my 
word! 

“I have loved her better and better every year since 
that day. For a long time, I did not presume to think 
of anything more than the worship I might show to an 
angel from heaven. When the storm came, I wanted to 
fight the whole of Kinapeg for her. When I saw ahead 


A LONG LANE 


333 

of me the prospect of independence in a new place where 
our history — ^hers and mine — ^would never be known — 1 
took another solemn oath. I would snatch her out of the 
horrible pit and the miry clay in which she is living, and 
we would begin a new life together. Her child shall think 
I am his father. He shall take my name, and have the 
education of a gentleman. I’ve dreamed and planned and 
worked and saved all these years with this one end in 
view, and I’ll carry it through — so help me God!” 

He had her in a bear-like hug by now, and talked on so 
fast she would not interrupt him. 

“You will live with us, and we’ll be the very happiest 
family in Buffalo. Now, I’ll tell you something I have 
never let you guess. I wrote to her, last Christmas, and 
made a clean breast of all this. I begged her not to answer 
if there was the faintest hope that I might bring her 
around to my way of thinking. Just to write ‘Letter re- 
ceived’ on a card, and address it to me. If the case was 
absolutely hopeless, she must write at once frankly and 
put me out of my misery. All I asked was that she would 
think long and seriously of what I had said. In a week, 
I had the card — ^Letter received,^ Not another word. 
As I read it, that spells ‘Hope I’ 

“Now, here is my scheme. You say Ben is coming to 
supper. Step around, and ask her to bring him — say, a 
little before sunset. Manage to keep her until I show 
up, and then coax Ben down to the river to see the min- 
nows dart under the bridge. Isn’t there somebody to take 
her place at home, if she should stay to supper?” 

“Sally Barnes is there for the day. Mrs. de Baun sent 
her with orders to save Sarah all she could. I’ll arrange 
on the quiet to have her clear up after supper, and leave 
the old lady comfortable, if I should happen to persuade 
Sarah to wait here until the boy is ready to go home. 


334 


A LONG LANE 


‘‘I’m a fool — and I know it ! to give in to aU this !” she 
concluded, between laughing and crying, “But, there! 
You could talk the legs olF an iron pot! Will you listen 
to the way that river is bubblin’ an’ gigglin’, as if it 
understood what we are sayin’? I don’t wonder it is 
amused !” 

Dick, calling in due form upon Mrs. Carson at four 
o’clock, had the surprise of his life. That energetic ma- 
tron received him as she might a young brother. Her 
father was not at home. Business had summoned him to 
Millville at noon. He would be back to-morrow. 

“Do you know he is as proud of you as if he had dis- 
covered a new variety of the genus hoTno,*’ she rattled on 
in the old style. “Now, you are going to tell me all about 
yourself, personally. I don’t care a sou marquee for 
business. I hope you are thinking of marrying before 
long.? If you don’t, you will cheat some girl out of a first- 
class article of husband. So good a son would make 
a none-such of a husband.” 

The door was wide open and Dick walked in without 
demur. 

Khoda’s genius for leadership and her love of sensa- 
tional effects were tow-and-tinder to the applied match 
of the romantic tale. She was no prude, and, as a wedded 
wife, she could allude openly to the formidable obstacle 
in the course of true love. Dick swept it aside with a 
flood of disdainful protestation. Lured on by her undis- 
guised warmth of sympathy, he unfolded the details of 
the dream in which he had lived and had all the being 
worth having, ever since the girl shook hands with him in 
the sight of the post-office loungers in the broad light of 
day, and said she was glad to see him at home again. 

Rhoda hearkened with glowing interest to his untaught 
eloquence. As he wound up the narrative with the “So 


A LONG LANE 


335 

help me, God!” he did not recollect he had used already 
that afternoon — ^Mrs. Carson pressed both hands to her 
temples : 

^Wait a minute!” She shut her eyes tightly, and Dick 
was awed into dumbness. 

Her brain was struggling in the birth-throes of a big 
thought. It came with a rush: 

“If I were you, Dick Walker, Fd marry her this very 
day! There is the Parsonage and she hasn’t a better 
friend than the Dominie. Don’t give her time to think! 
Go to her, like the man you are, and tell her that the 
one, only and best thing for you both is to be made one 
in the sight of God and His angels, before you are twelve 
hours older. You will say you are not ready to set up 
a home. If you were, you shouldn’t take her to it as 
yet. Leave your FAMILY — capitalizing the word in 
her father’s finest style — “here until you select a nice 
little house in a part of the town where you have no ac- 
quaintances. Then, come, back, for, youTy wife, and, hoyP^ 
putting a slow comma after each word — “and install 
them, with your mother, in respectability and comfort, 
for the rest of your prosperous life. No! don’t speak 
until I have finished what I have to say! You may not 
have heard that the Van Dycks are leaving Kinapeg — 
root and branch?” 

(Dick, dazed and gasping, yet recollected that he had 
said “bag and baggage,” but it meant the same thing.) 

“Going to Millville. Into the lumber business, which 
Father predicts will eat up their last dollar. More than 
that! I heard to-day, that Cort is engaged to be mar- 
ried to the daughter of the cousin who is inveigling them 
into the enterprise, and that the old folks are to live with 
him. You may imagine what that will mean to his sis- 
ter! I will let you into another bit of secret family his- 


A LONG LANE 


336 

tory. When John Van Dyck’s father died, he left certain 
shares, mortgages and the like, to Sauchy. At her death 
they were to revert to her niece. Both of them were 
named for the old man’s wife. He must have known that 
his son was not so clever as he thinks himself, for the 
lega6y was put into the hands of trustees to be paid by 
them for the support of Sauchy, and, at her decease, to 
Sarah. Now, — Dick Walker! — ” the commas in impres- 
sive play, — ‘‘those, trustees, are, Mr. Corlaer, and, MY 
FATHER! That was not generally known. Mr. Van 
Dyck is a little sore on the subject. He thought every- 
thing should have been left to his management. The 
money has been passed over to him at stated times. He 
may have spent it for his sister’s clothes and board — or 
for something else! His daughter will receive it direct 
after this. When she has a husband to look into her 
affairs, it will be properly used. The investments are 
good. Father says. He would see to that. An honester 
man never lived. You ought to know all these things. 
And if you hadn’t obeyed me to-day, you might never 
have heard them. 

“You’ll be saying that it is on the cards that she won’t 
consent to marry you, now. Maybe she’ll say ‘No’ for 
good and all. You’ve got to take chances in every busi- 
ness-deal. In my opinion, she is too sensible not to see 
that she will escape certain misery and get happiness by 
agreeing to your terms. Put it to her plainly. Unless — ” 
a bright idea lighting up her face — “you would prefer to 
have Me undertake the commission 

Dick laughed outright at that. 

“You would do the job a great deal better than I 
can, I am sure, Mrs. Carson, and I am more grateful to 
you for all you have said and done for me than I can 
Express. I will follow your advice implicitly.” He 


A LONG LANE 


337 

glanced at the mantel clock. “If you will excuse me, I 
will hurry home and tell my mother what we have decided 
upon. I suppose — ” hesitating and colouring — “I would 
better not speak to Mr. de Baun until ” 

Rhoda struck in promptly: 

“Certainly not! Only — don’t admit to yourself the 
possibility of failure. ‘Grasp your nettle!’ And one 
thing more ! This is not to be a secret marriage, so far as 
little Kinapeg is concerned. I shall make it my business 
to spread the news far and wide. I wish I were going 
to stay here long enough to see the dust it will raise! I 
won’t keep you! You will have your hands full enough. 
May I ask as a favour that I may be one of the wit- 
nesses.^ I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” 

Sarah believed, in after days, that she could not have 
accepted the sacrifice of a young life so full of promise 
of fulfilled ideals, had she not been broken in spirit and dis- 
mayed to hopelessness by the survey of the future sud- 
denly bared to her. 

“I had known for months that I loved him,” she con- 
fessed between sobs, to Mrs. de Baun. “Now, it seems 
that, if I had really cared for him, I must have been less 
selfish.” 

Dick told his story and made his plea in the vine-shaded 
doorway of the stone cottage. Patsey and Ben were 
watching the minnows under the bridge, so near by that 
the child’s laugh mingled with the river’s song. 

The sun was dropping slowly behind the straight dark 
brow of the nearest mountain; the incense of clover-blos- 
soms floated to them on a weak southerly wind; in the 
grove overhanging the water a thrush was chanting ves- 
pers. 

“It must be all a dream !” sighed the girl as, at a signal 
from Dick to his mother his companion did not see, Pat- 


A LONG LANE 


338 

sej strolled up the bank, Ben’s hand in hers — “and it 
does not seem right somehow. I never expected to be 
happy again. Surely we ought to wait awhile Dear 
Auntie — Dick ?” 

“Nobody would be gladder than she, dear, if she could 
know it. And” — his voice sinking into tender reverence — 
“I like to believe that she does! It would make her so 
happy that I can’t think the angels would keep it from 
her!” 


CHAPTER XXX 


U P to the early eighties, Martin’s of the Lower Sara- 
nac maintained a sturdy reputation for excellent 
plain cookery and the unconventional comfort coveted 
by sportsmen and jaded fugitives from the maddening 
crowd of cities. 

Paul Smith’s had a smack of aristocracy imparted by 
‘‘course-dinners,” imported beverages and high prices ; 
Bartlett’s creamed pickerel and broiled trout had inter- 
national fame. The low-browed frame building with rude 
wharves sprawling across the head of the lake was, to 
proprietor, guides and habitues, the key of the wilderness 
of wood and water beyond. 

The shriek of the locomotive had never pierced the 
depths of the forest primeval, and no steam-yacht ruf- 
fled the expanse of the lake-chain. 

Tourists and sportsmen — the numbers increasing with 
the opening of each season — ^were transported from civili- 
sation by big-bodied stage-coaches — usually blue or green 
— which disgorged their contents thrice a day under the 
open shed nobody thought of calling “a porte cochere,^* 
connecting two sections of the main building. These ar- 
rivals were the leading events of the day, and the occa- 
sions were rare when they did not give impetus to ver- 
anda gossip, and supply dramatic touches to meetings 
and recognition. 

Somebody was always on the stage whom nobody there 
had expected to see, or for whom several somebodies had 

339 


340 A LONG LANE 

been at the point of death with hope deferred for weary 
days. 

“Coincidences are like sands of the sea for mutitude!” 
said a woman to a lately-arrived couple upon the lake- 
ward piazza one August afternoon. “I ought to be used 
to them by now, for we have been here ten days. When 
Dr. Lang and Margarita were dropped at my feet day 
before yesterday, it was one more of what scientific men 
would call an ‘indefinite series of coincidental happenings.’ 
But, to-day, when all the world was on hand to see the 
noon-stage come in, and I heard a man say at my elbow — 
‘Doesn’t that gentleman remind you of Gladstone.^’ and 
a lady answer ‘It is a handsome edition !’ and I turned to 
see you and Mrs. de Baun, I cried out, like Peter Mag- 
nus — ‘God bless my soul ! there is no end to coincidences !’ 
I am the busiest of busy bees just now. I’ll tell you why 
presently. But sit down in this cosy corner, and don’t 
look at anybody but me for half-an-hour while I ask fifty 
questions, and unload my budget!” 

“More coincidences.^” smiled Mrs. de Baun. 

A score of years had dealt tenderly with her ma- 
tron comeliness. Her hair, stippled with grey, framed 
a face fresh in colouring and placid to serenity. As 
of yore, she regarded the speaker with indulgent 
amusement. 

Mrs. Carson was already known as the “dashing widow” 
of the summer crowd. Her mitigated douleur, exemplified 
in grey silks, white tulle, and pearl and amethyst orna- 
ments, had not abated original vivacity, or toned down 
the vigour of her speech. She was a striking figure in any 
company, and a desirable acquisition to a pleasure-mak- 
ing crowd with but one object in sight for weeks to come. 
With her thirst for excitement; her love of power, how- 
ever transient the triumph, and her talent for spectacular 


A LONG LANE 


341 

effects, she was in her element. Her eyes flashed ; her fin- 
gers quivered and glanced. 

She reminded Mrs. de Baun, as she said to her hus- 
band later, of the electrical figures used in demonstration 
in Natural Philosophy classes. 

The Dominie was a D.D. now, and had a cure of souls 
in the largest city in New Jersey, but his heart turned 
longingly to the parish of his first love, and Rhoda was 
associated with the dear days that could come no more. 

The stranger who had called him ‘‘a handsome edition 
of Gladstone” was not far wrong. The resemblance to 
the eminent statesman was marked as advancing years 
silvered his hair and drew stronger lines upon his fea- 
tures. He was a man of mark wherever he went, and be- 
loved by his flock and fellow citizens. 

‘‘So Lang is here he said, in a satisfied tone. “I shall 
be glad to meet him again. I have not seen him in ten 
years, I think.” 

“The weight of years and honours has told upon him,” 
responded Rhoda. “The honours have told mightily upon 
his wife. She never forgets, for the tenth of a second, 
that he is President of Unity College, which she informed 
me last night, ‘will be a University some day under Nor- 
man’s able management.’ He has set on foot the Lord 
knows how many schemes of endowing it and raising the 
standard of scholarship and for making a great man of 
Norman Lang, A.B. and B.A. and LL.D. and Ph.D., and 
the rest of the alphabet. She didn’t put it that way, of 
course. I never talked with another woman under the 
rank of Duchess who carried her honours with a higher 
hand — and head. 

“When I mentioned that my sister and two of the dear 
aunts still live in the old home in Kinapeg, she raised her 
eyebrows and sighed that she ‘can never re-visit the place. 


342 


A LONG LANE 


It must be different with you? Your house can hardly be 
called a homestead. Ours dates back to the first Corlaer 
who emigrated to America.’ This remark was made pur- 
posely audible to six people sitting near us. ‘Since the 
death of my parents, and the passage of the place into 
stranger-hands, I dread the idea of seeing it again.’ ” 

“The old Margarita!” observed Mrs. de Baun. “One 
of Carrie’s boys was graduated from Rutgers at the last 
Commencement — a nice-looking fellow! Has Margarita 
children?” 

“None! She laments that ‘Norman’ (she alternates 
that with ‘Dr. Lang!’) has no son to carry on the name. 
‘It is a mysterious dispensation,’ she says, ‘that gave Car- 
rie three boys. George Adrain is well enough in his way, 
but nobody in particular.’ But” — animatedly — “speak- 
ing of fine boys, I must show you my latest ‘find’ in that 
line! You could never guess who he is, if you strained 
your imaginations all day long. We met him at the Pro- 
file House last month, and made friends forthwith, when 
I told him who I was. He had often heard his father 
speak of me as one of his best friends. I visited them, 
six years ago, when Mr. Carson and I were in Buffalo. 
This youth was in Harvard then. He took a degree at 
Leipsic last year.” 

“You have not told us who he is, yet,” Dr. de Baun 
reminded her. 

“You cannot be talking of Ben Walker!” exclaimed 
his wife in the same breath. 

“Of Ben Walker, my dear lady! and of a no less impor- 
tant personage. There are three other children — two 
boys and a girl — a third ‘Sarah’ — and any mother might 
be proud of them. But Ben is the finest of the tribe. 

“You’ll see him to-night. He went off with my son 
on a fishing-expedition three days ago, but they are sure 


A LONG LANE 


343 


to be back before supper. I had word from them last 
night to that effect. Our entertainment would be minus 
a star of the first magnitude if our tenor e robusto were 
to fail us.” 

“He inherits his mother’s talent for music, then?” 

dear Dominie, he sings like a lark — a thrush — a 
mocking-bird — all combined !” 

“Don’t leave out the nightingale !” admonished the di- 
verted clergyman. “You stimulate our curiosity into 
impatience. May we attend the entertainment? What 
is it?” 

Coming down to business, she set forth that a charade, 
clipped by herself from Godey^s Lady^s Book, would be 
acted under her management, her son “who has decided 
histrionic talent,” taking the leading part. Half-a-dozen 
young people — guests in the hotel — selected by herself, 
would fill out the cast. A noted pianist, who chanced to 
be also in the house, had kindly consented to preside at 
the piano, to play several times, and to accompany the 
vocalists. There were but two of these — a concert-so- 
prano of some note, from New York, and young Walker. 

‘Wou should have heard Mr. Bagley — the pianist — 
rave over Ben’s voice and technique! He says he would 
make a fortune upon the operatic stage if he would take 
up music as a profession. To-night, he is to sing nothing 
more ambitious than two or three old ballads. He de- 
murred when it was proposed that he might render some 
classic selections. He said — and he was right — that a 
promiscuous audience of holiday tourists is more likely 
to appreciate popular songs. Luckily, I have with me a 
bound volume of old ballads (illustrated) I picked up in 
the city the day before I left home. I brought it along, 
anticipating some such opportunity in which it might be 
useful. I have been often at summer-hotels where no 


344 


A LONG LANE 


music was to be had. Professionals are only too glad to 
leave music portfolios behind them when they are off on 
vacations.” 

“Tell us something of Sarah and her home.'”’ begged 
Mrs. de Baun, who was on the watch for a gap in the 
monologue. “We saw her in Buffalo — it must have been 
twelve years ago, Ed.^ She was very happy then, and in 
fine health. And Dick has prospered in everything he 
put his hand unto — apparently.'^” 

“My father always said he would! I am so thankful 
he lived to see the fulfilment of the prophecy ! Thankful, 
too, that he died before he lost his wonderful vigour of 
mind and body. It was really pitiful to see what a wreck 
Mr. Corlaer became at the last. The change began when 
poor Will died. He lost ambition, spirits and health. 
Father said that Corlaer always was a dreamer, but that 
some of his dreams might have proved true, if he had 
not lost all interest in them. And you know, there were 
heavy money-losses beside. If he had lived much longer 
his family would have inherited next-to-nothing. I never 
knew of a sadder break-down. You know she is living 
still.?” 

“Yes — and in a beautiful old age — honoured and be- 
loved by all who know her,” replied Mr. de Baun. “Her 
home is with Carrie. I should have thought she would 
be more comfortable in Margarita’s house. There seemed 
to be more congeniality between her and her elder daugh- 
ter in the old days. But Carrie has improved greatly 
since then. Adrain is a man of good sense and fine prin- 
ciples. His influence has been salutary. Maternity has 
done more — has done more!” 

“Sarah is a marked illustration of the truth of that,” 
said Rhoda, kindly. “Dick told me that both of them re- 
solved, when the children were born, to study for them. 


A LONG LANE 


345 

-and make up so far as they could for the defect in their 
own early education. It was beautiful to see how both 
of them loved and honoured his mother as long as she lived. 
She was alive when I visited them in ’76. The happiest 
and proudest grandmother that ever lived !” 

‘‘She wrote to us the last Christmas of her life, to 
acknowledge the trifling gift we never failed to send her 
at the holiday season,” answered Mr. de Baun. “She 
told us then that her ‘last days were the most blessed 
of all. I keep thinking all the time,’ she said, ‘of a text 
I heard you preach from, at the funeral of Dr. Ten 
Eyck’s mother, who had been ’most blind for years — ■ 
“At the evening- time it shall be light !” ’ ” 

Rhoda’s eyes glistened and her strident tones were 
mellow : 

“Dear old Patsey! she and I had some fine times to- 
gether in that old Guard House. You know it was pulled 
down last year.? The march of improvement demanded 
the destruction. They have cut a road through the foun- 
dation. They pulled down Patsey’s house at the same 
time. Shall we ever forget the wedding at which you of- 
ficiated, and I was one of the witnesses.? And how you 
appointed yourself a committee of one to interview the 
old folks before you would perform the ceremony, and 
got their consent, although their ‘feelings would not allow 
them to attend any festivity so soon after there was a 
funeral in the family.?’ ” 

She stopped to laugh. Mr. de Baun was grave : 
“Except Sarah, there is not a member of that family 
ahve. Cort’s fine lady-wife worried the life out of her 
mother-in-law within three years, and drove her husband 
to drink. The father died of a broken heart. I was sent 
for to bury Jack Van Dyck ten years ago. He fell from 
a railway bridge one dark night on his way home from 


A LONG LANE 


346 

a saloon. It sounds like a mortuary report. You and 
oui selves have reason for devout gratitude that we have 
no hideous skeletons in our respective households. My 
boy and girl are the hope and joy of our declining years. 
Both are happily married. But I am afraid our inter- 
change of reminiscence and gossip may be detaining you 
from official duties. It has been a great pleasure to meet 
you again. As we shall probably stay here a week, we 
hope for a renewal of the enjoyment.” 

The Norman Langs were absent all day on a trip 
to Mt. Elba, John Brown’s former home and burying- 
place. Having ascertained this, the de Bauns sought a 
retreat known to them in former times — a grove of 
balsam firs a quarter-mile from the hotel, where they could 
rest and talk without danger of interruption from idle 
strollers. A plank set in the trunk of a tree at each end, 
offered a seat to the wife. Her husband preferred to 
lie upon the bed of fragrant needles, elastic as a mat- 
tress with the accumulation of years. It was a typical 
Adirondack day. The sun was still high in the lowlands, 
but almost touched the summits of the wooded slopes on 
the horizon. The golden shafts struck athwart the Dom- 
inie’s face, and he shifted his position. 

“Don’t move !” exhorted his wife. “And put your arms 
back under your head. As you lay there with the sun in 
your eyes, I saw why that woman called you a ‘flattered 
edition of the Grand Old Man.’ Your square jaw and 
iron-grey hair heighten the resemblance.” 

They laughed hke two care-free children; then silence 
as happy fell between them. The breeze crept through 
the evergreens above their heads — the sibilant lullaby un- 
known to deciduous growths, that is never quite hushed 
in the hemlock, pine and balsam, no matter how windless 
the day. 


A LONG LANE 


347 


“The surf of the Adirondacks !” murmured the Dom- 
inie, by and by. “None but those who are criminally 
busy for ten months out of twelve know the music for 
what it is. One needs a cultivated ear for the right 
appreciation of its meaning.” 

Another interval of eloquent stillness, stirred only 
by the “hush! hush!” of the boughs, and the wife said, 
dreamily : “Twenty years, love ! Think of what has gone 
on, and who have passed out of our lives in that time! 
It is more than half the average term of human life.” 

“Computing that average to be thirty-three years ? 
Yes, dearest! The babies of that day are men and 
women now. We are (as oftener happens now than of 
old, and we thought our minds ran in the same channel, 
then)- — thinking of the same thing. Dick Walker has 
done well by the child — as well as if ” 

He did not finish the sentence, as the wife perceived 
with a little petulance. 

“Why do you stop.^ As 1 look at it, he has but done 
his duty.” 

“Somebody has defined heroism as ‘doing more than 
one’s duty.’ In my estimation, Dick has not fallen short 
of the heroic.” 

“Ed ! if you were anybody else, and I were not so com- 
fortable in mind and body, I should call you unreason- 
able and pig-headed!” 

He stretched out a hand to stroke her foot: 

“Each of us has held to his and her own conviction 
for nearly a quarter-century without coming to blows. 
We won’t break the truce at this late day. Upon one 
thing we agree : — With all her whimsies and mannerisms, 
Rhoda has some fine qualities. Take her by and large, I 
don’t know but that I prefer her to the President’s con- 
sort. When she reminds me a little too sharply of Timo- 


348 A LONG LANE 

thy O., I recollect that he was my good friend, and that 
he is dead.” 

can never forget that he broke down and cried 
outright when he came to say ‘Good-bye’ to us the day 
we left Kinapeg. Sometimes — I — am — almost — sorry 
we did not spend the rest of our days there. Those 
mountains over yonder bring it all back to me.” 

“We did what we believed to be right, dear child ! If I 
had not thought, with all my soul, that the Master had 
use for me elsewhere, I would gladly have lingered until 
nightfall in the green pastures and beside the still waters.” 

When he spoke again, it was to praise the beauty of 
the day and the luxurious comfort of his present con- 
dition. His voice trailed off into a drowsy murmur, and 
in two minutes he was sound asleep. 

Ah well ! let him rest ! it was not that he was bored by 
her society, but that he was fagged out by overwork. 
Stepping noiselessly, she broke a long spray from a young 
balsam tree and set herself to fanning the gnats and 
mosquitoes from his head and hands. She had her rever- 
ies and dream-pictures for company, and liked to have 
leisure in which she could conscientiously indulge them. 

The sun had sunk clean out of sight, and in the dim 
recesses of the woods were amethystine shadows, premoni- 
tory of the long August twilight, when the sound of men’s 
voices attracted her attention to the present scene. Two 
boats cut across the streaks of warm light cast by the 
afterglow upon the lake. They were manned by ac- 
complished oarsmen, and raced swiftly, side by side, in 
the direction of the hotel, the music of hilarious young 
voices making a joyous hubbub in the sunset air. 

They were not the tones of uncultured guides or holi- 
day cockneys, the lady’s practised ear discerned on the 
instant. 


A LONG LANE 


349 


‘‘Perhaps the Carson party,” she conjectured. “One 
voice sounded vaguely familiar. Somehow, it set me to 
musing again on Kinapeg days. Or, it may have been 
Rhoda’s talk that keeps my mind in that channel.” 

She had read Ossian in her girlhood, and a favourite 
quotation stole to her lips: 

“The music of Caryl is like the memory of past joys. 
Pleasant and mournful to the soul.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


T he smaller of the two drawing-rooms filling the 
lower floor of one wing of the summer caravansery 
was closed to the general public for all of that important 
day. Under the able supervision of the born leader of 
women (and some men), country carpenters had built 
a stage of planks supported by trestles raised four feet 
above the floor-level, and hung a green curtain from pole 
and rings, screening the platform from the prospective 
occupants of camp-chairs arranged in close rows in the 
spacious parlour and outer halls. 

A door at the right of the stage gave upon an im- 
provised green-room. 

“I have engineered so many amateur theatricals that 
this affair is a mere bagatelle,” the manager responded 
airily to the de Bauns’ praise of her arrangements. 

She had granted them a private view of the machinery 
and a rapid sketch of the programme, intercepting them 
on their way to supper. 

“The curtain does not rise until half past eight o’clock 
to allow the supper to be eaten and cleared away com- 
fortably. Have you met the Langs? No? They will 
be late in coming down, having returned from their pil- 
grimage very tired and dusty. I suspect that Mrs. Presi- 
dent-of-Unity-College was more than half-disposed to 
decline my invitation to accept two of the best seats in 
the house, reserved by special order of the management 
for her distinguished lord and almost-as-distinguished 

350 


A LONG LANE 


351 


self. She pleaded fatigue, even after hearing that you 
were to have places next to them. I ‘nailed’ her by en- 
gaging the President to ‘return thanks in the name of the 
Management and Actors at the conclusion of the per- 
formance, for the flattering and courteous attention 
awarded by the audience to our humble display of Home 
Talent’ — and the rest of the stock-humbug. ‘I had set 
my heart upon the final touch that would dignify the af- 
fair, as nothing else could.’ I laid it on artistically, you 
may be sure, and brought down my bird. Excuse the 
mixed metaphor! I didn’t use it in talking to them! 
My troupe take supper in a private room with me. Being 
in costume to save time, they cannot appear in the pub-> 
lie dining-hall.” 

Thus it happened that the old neighbours did not meet 
until the de Bauns, who were in their places early (“to 
avoid the rush” as Rhoda had advised) stood up to shake 
hands with a white-moustached man in correct evening 
dress, whose air of distinction would have made him a 
marked figure in any assemblage, and a little lady with 
very lively black eyes. Her erect carriage made the most 
of her stature, and reminded Mrs. de Baun instantly of 
the gay widow’s — “she carries it with a high hand — and 
head!” She looked as youthful as her forty-odd years 
allowed, in an embroidered India muslin and a high coif^ 
fure flanked by a lace butterfly pinned coquettishly upon 
the still-abundant and unfaded hair. 

The reunited quartette shook hands cordially in the 
admiring sight of the audience crowding the parlours and 
hall to the doors, and sat down to exchange low-toned 
congratulations and queries. They were cut off in mid- 
swing by the tinkling of a bell behind the scenes and the 
obedient ascent of the green-baize curtain. 

The stage was set as a family sitting-room for the 


A LONG LANE 


352 

charade, and into the centre from the side-door advanced 
the high priestess of the occasion: 

‘‘Stately and tall, she moves in the hall. 

The chief of a thousand for grace !” 

quoted Mrs. de Baun to her husband in a swift “aside” 
through lips that formed no syllables, and he quaked with 
inward mirth. 

The widow’s taste in dress was universally conceded to 
be faultless. 

The sheen of her silvery-grey silk was tempered by 
draperies of black lace of cobwebby texture; her hair 
shimmered softly beneath a white lace “barbe,” a single 
pearl of price pinning the front into a Marie Stuart 
curve, and another catching it under the chin that be- 
trayed a disposition to double itself over the folds. She 
had long, slim hands, and the tip of a long, slim slipper 
peeped beneath the front of the trained skirt. She enun- 
ciated distinctly, and her voice carried well. Her asser- 
tion of proficiency in engineering private theatricals was 
no empty boast. She chose her words judiciously and 
rendered them gracefully, in a half-dozen sentences that 
deprecated criticism of an amateur performance, and 
expressed the pleasure it had given the hastily-formed 
company to supply their fellow-guests with an evening’s 
entertainment. 

It was a perverse, and, as she feared, a malicious trick 
of memory that tossed into Mrs. de Baun’s mind the vis- 
ion of another evening’s entertainment and echoes of the 
speaker’s father’s peroration : 

“I have gone into the highways and hedges and gath- 
ered thence my guests.” 

“I wished for one agonised minute, that I had been 


A LONG LANE 


353 


made up without a sense of humour!” she affirmed, peni- 
tently, in recounting the scene in a letter to her daughter 
on the morrow. “I did not glance at your father. Noth- 
ing could have saved us from open disgrace if I had.” 

‘‘The first of the artists who will delight us this even- 
ing,” Rhoda was saying — “requires no introduction to 
the music-lovers of the Middle States. The name of Al- 
fred Bagley is as familiar to you as that of Beethoven 
or Rubinstein. It is my privilege and honour to introduce 
him to you.” 

After naming the music that was to regale their ears, 
she bowed to the pianist who had sat unseen by the audi- 
ence behind the piano until she named him, and slid grace- 
fully out of sight to the screen guarding the exit to the 
green-room. 

That the pianist was encored was a foregone conclu- 
sion. Was there ever a summer-resort that withheld the 
provincial tribute to the exploitation of “native talent”.? 

After the gratification of the encore, “the little Char- 
ade selected from one of the foremost of our family maga- 
zines” was duly heralded. It went off well, with so little 
of the stamp of amateurism as to elicit sincere applause. 
With the pronunciation of the basic word, “Mill-It- 
Ary,” the curtain sank without a hitch, and the first 
part of the show was ended. 

The entr’ acte gave the old acquaintances in the third 
row from the front some minutes for conversation. Their 
eyes and brains had been busy while the piano was under 
fire, and the charade was unfolding tortured syllables. 

Mrs. de Baun had settled to her satisfaction that Mar- 
garita had not worn as well as might have been expected. 
Fretful creases at the corners, and a slight hollowing of 
the brilliant eyes, hinted at worry and conflict with cir- 
cumstances, too mighty for the imperious will. She might 


354 


A LONG LANE 


not have won in the twenty years’ fight. She had not 
submitted. Carrie had quieted down in the even tenor 
of domestic life. Her sister was ever grasping at the as- 
yet Unattainable. To the one, life had brought massage. 
To the other it was friction. 

‘‘Friction! Fuss! Fidget!” ran the alliterative sum- 
mary of the astute observer. “The father’s consuming 
energy, without his dignity and poise. I wish she did not 
remind me at times of her mother! The general unlike- 
ness is so painful! I never thought, in the old time, that 
foolish Carrie would develop into the finer woman. Why 
is it, I wonder, that some children fail to reproduce a 
single trait of either parent, while others are almost 
duplicates of ancestors, near and remote .f* Physiologists 
have much to learn yet in what would seem to be the 
‘a. b. c.’ of their science. I should have said that the 
Corlaers would stamp their offspring in unmistakable 
characters.” 

Thus the running mental commentary upon what was 
before her bodily eyes, while she was answering Marga- 
rita’s perfunctory queries with regard to the de Baun 
children and the parents’ abiding-place. 

“I do not trust myself to think of my old home and 
those who were the associates of my early days,” Mrs. 
Lang said, pensively. “Times and life have changed 
sadly for our family ! Of course, I would never have been 
content to spend aU my life in poor cramped little Kina- 
peg. The bare suggestion is suffocation! As for Nor- 
man, he has absolutely no fondness for the place. Some- 
times, I think he hates the very name of it!” v 

The de Bauns fancied the answering smile was a trifle 
weary, and the studied moderation of the tone had, to a 
nice ear, a touch which, if it were not sardonic, was not 
free from a dash of acrid meaning. 


A LONG LANE 


355 

“My dear wife ! that could hardly be when it was there 
that I won and wedded you! Dr. de Baun will agree with 
me in saying that, as some ‘thoughts do lie too deep for 
tears,’ there are reminiscences we must bury clean out of 
sight, if we would keep sane and fit for the duties of the 
present. I could sentimentalise by the hour over Kina- 
peg and the ‘days that are no more,’ if I did not have a 
man’s work to do in the ‘living present.’ ” 

“ ‘Heart within and God o’erhead !’ ” 

The line slipped of its own weight from the Dominie’s 
lips. Both he and his wife were beginning to feel the un- 
speakable discomfort of listeners to a matrimonial skirm- 
ish which, they are morally certain, would be an open 
war of words but for their presence. 

“ ‘Heart within and God o’erhead !’ ” — falling into his 
habit of repeating the last words when he meant them 
very much. ^^TJiat is the watchword when one is in the 
thick of the fight! I comprehend just what you mean, 
my dear fellow. There are times when I am too deadly 
in earnest over the work of the day to trust myself to 
look backward. It would unman me. Yet my wife and 
I had a sweet half-hour of Kinapeg reminiscensing this 
afternoon in my old hiding-place — the balsam grove over 
yonder. It is one of our vacation-luxuries. Mrs. Car- 
son opened the sluice-gates in a chat we had with her.” 

Mrs. Lang sniffed contemptuously. It is not an elegant 
word, and the reality was utterly unbecoming the con- 
sort of the President of a college that was going to be a 
University, but the fact remains. 

“She makes me tired T she ejaculated, falling into 
slang as inelegant as the sniff. “You need not frown at 
me, Norman! You are as much out of tune with her as 


A LONG LANE 


356 

I am. Her redundant energy is oppressive. She is never 
content unless she occupies the seat of honour and is fill- 
ing it to overflowing. Which she generally manages to 
do. It is a bore to be here to-night at all, but she wanted 
us to see her triumph. So she roped in Dr. Lang to re- 
turn thanks after meat. She said grace, as you heard! 
If I do not fall asleep before the ridiculous farce is over, 
it will be surprising.” 

Dr. Lang was unmistakably annoyed. Patience of the 
finest quality will fray under continual scratching. The 
Dominie again threw himself before the harried hus- 
band: 

“She promised what will be an attraction to us, at 
least,” — he began, when a round of applause hailed the 
rising of the curtain upon the second act of the pro- 
gramme. Mrs. Carson was already upon the stage, and 
at her left stood by the piano a young woman with a roll 
of music in her hand. It was the managers’ pleasure “to 
present Miss Emilia Thorsley, whose international repu- 
tation has earned for her a passport to every heart. 

“The company and the management have concerted 
what they are convinced will prove a welcome innovation 
upon conventional musical entertainments. Nothing will 
be sung this evening but selections from ballads beloved 
by our mothers and grandmothers. They are endeared to 
us by tenderest associations. They never grow old, be- 
cause they sprang from the heart and go straight to the. 
heart, making the world-battered cynic a child again at 
his mother’s knee, and reviving the love-story of the 
most cynical misanthrope of us all. 

“Miss Thorsley will prove the truth of what I am say- 
ing — and far more than I could ever express. I leave 
the beautiful task to her.” 

“Bravo!” shouted a cosmopolitan sexagenarian, and 


A LONG LANE 


357 

a storm of clapping hands assured the speaker that she 
and her innovation had made the hit of the evening. 

Miss Thorsley sang first — ‘‘Ye banks and braes of Bon- 
nie Boon,” and the encore was the most pathetic of Eng- 
lish ballads, — “Douglas, Douglas, tender and truel” 

The Mistress of Ceremonies interposed, when a second 
call would have insisted upon a third song. 

Rhoda’s lace-edged handkerchief was in ostentatious 
evidence while she quieted the clamour : 

“When you hear why I interfere, you will pardon me. 
For one thing. Miss Thorsley’s vocal organs may not be 
so stout as her heart and her willingness to oblige you. 

“In the second place, I have yet another treat in store 
for you. As a long-time resident of the Empire State, 
I thrill with pride in presenting to you one of your own 
citizens who has lived in your thriving city of Buffalo, 
from infancy. As a native of the gallant Httle State of 
New Jersey — ^your ‘little Sister’ as you sometimes call 
her ” 

Deafening applause obliged her to pause for a 
minute : 

“Having been born and brought up — as all my fathers 
were — in ‘the Jerseys’ — I am justly proud to present to 
you a native of my own Commonwealth, who has culti- 
vated his rare talents in the best Conservatory of Music 
upon the European Continent. 

“Ladies and gentlemen ! I present to you with honest 
and affectionate — and prideful — pleasure. Mr. Ben 
Walker of New Jersey, New York and Germany!” 

More and stentorian “Bravos” from travelled-men, and 
hand-clapping that jarred the sashes of the open win- 
dows, bore tribute to the oratorical powers of the Mis- 
tress of Ceremonies and saluted her protege. 

The de Bauns clutched one another’s hands convul- 


A LONG LANE 


358 

sively. The wife felt the woman sitting beside her start 
violently, and then shiver as in a hard ague. 

In the centre of the brilliantly-lighted stage, bowing 
and smiling mute acknowledgment of the ovation, stood 
Norman Lang, as they had seen him twenty-four years 
before. His evening dress set off rarely the well-knit 
figure and handsome face. In every lineament and ges- 
ture, he was the living image of the man the three spec- 
tators had known long and intimately. 

One hand — the whilome teacher’s from wrist to fin- 
ger-tips — held a loose sheet of manuscript music. (They 
learned, subsequently, that Rhoda had had it copied by 
one of her troupe expressly for him from her bound vol- 
ume of ballads.) Mrs. de Baun’s fingers tightened until 
the nails cut into her husband’s flesh, when the young man 
raised the other hand to put back a truant lock from his 
forehead. She had seen the mannerism many times in 
singing-classes and in parlours. She recalled, with poign- 
ant distinctness, how Norman brushed his hair back in 
rising to sing in the white moonlight on the night of the 
Ladies’ Aid supper at the Van Dycks’. 

The piano broke into a brilliant prelude at that in- 
stant, and her senses reeled. 

For this was the song upborne by the accompaniment 
following the prelude: 

“I have heard the mavis singing 
His love-song to the morn; 

I have seen the dew-drop clinging 
To the rose that’s newly-born. 

But a sweeter voice hath charmed me 
At the evening’s gentle close. 

And I’ve seen an eye still brighter 
Than the dew-drop on the rose. 


A LONG LANE 


359 


’Twas thy voice, my gentle Mary, 

And thine artless, winning smile 
That made the world an Eden, 

My Mary of Argyle! 

“Though thy voice may lose its sweetness. 

And thine eye its brightness too. 

Though thy step may lack its fleetness 
And thy hair its sunny hue. 

Still to me thou wilt be dearer 
Than all the world shall own, 

I have loved thee for thy beauty. 

But not for that alone, 

I have watched thy heart, dear Mary, 

And its goodness was the wile 
That made thee mine forever. 

Bonny Mary of Argyle!” 

In tone, in strength, in cadence — most of all, in the 
nameless, mysterious quality we term, for lack of a bet- 
ter descriptive epithet, ‘‘sympathetic,” — the voice was so 
exactlj^ that of Norman Lang at the same age as to be 
uncanny. The one had studied in , America, the other in 
Germany. The school might have been one and the same. 
Even the perfect articulation of every syllable, without 
producing the effect of studied precision, which had been 
one of the charms of Lang’s vocalisation, was marked in 
the youth who bore another man’s name. 

Atavism had never a more triumphant demonstration. 

To the de Bauns the revelation was monstrous and 
weird to the verge of the supernatural. It was a supreme 
moment in their united lives. After one hoi^ified ex- 
change of glances, neither sought counsel or sympathy 


36 o a long lane 

from the other. The shameful story unrolled itself slowly 
to each. 

As the last thrilling note of the song lost itself in the 
hushed air, a storm of applause broke the charm laid 
upon the audience — and Margarita Lang looked at her 
husband ! 

She was white with contending passions ; her eyes com- 
pelled his to read in them intensity of scorn before which 
his soul shrank and cowered. He pulled himself together 
with a mighty effort: 

‘T am afraid the heat is too much for you.^ Would 
you like to go out into the air.^” 

His tongue was as dry as the lips that fashioned the 
query, but she comprehended it. There was fascination 
in the dilated eyes that would not let his go. 

“// you can stay, 1 can!'* 

Each deliberate monosyllable was a drop of corrosive 
acid. It was the seamed face of an old man from which 
the basilisk gaze passed again to the stage. 

Rhoda Carson was at the singer’s side, deprecating, in 
eloquent pantomime, the increasing energy of the “en- 
core.” 

“When you hear what is in store for you, you will be 
glad to let me tell you of it,” she said, when at last she 
could be heard. “The next song upon our unwritten 
programme is a duet between Miss Thorsley and Mr. 
Walker. It is one dear to us all. I recollect, as if it 
were yesterday, — and with an odd lump in my throat” — 
putting her hand to it, illustratively — “crying over it 
when I was young and my heart was tender. I still think 
it beautiful. We will now hear, ‘What Are the Wild 
Waves Saying ” 

It was a tumultuous surge of reminiscence that swept 
the whilome mistress of the Kinapeg manse out of hear- 


A LONG LANE 


361 

ing of the music. One thought rolled back upon her per- 
sistently: Had Norman Lang ever seen his child until 
to-night, except in the brief glimpse of the mother, clasp- 
ing the baby to her breast in cowering into the covert of 
the hedge, out of sight of the gay party of riders ? Every 
particular of the scene, as Margarita had described it, 
recurred to horrified memory. Sarah Walker had never 
revisited Kinapeg since her removal to Buffalo. The child 
was a stranger to her kindred and old neighbours. 

Was the apparition that had bereft the de Bauns of 
reason for one dizzy minute, also a revelation to the man 
who had cloaked his sin so successfully for over a score 
of prosperous years? Of course, he had no prevision of 
Rhoda’s coup d^etat. And she — ? Under her plotting 
and contrivance of spectacular effect — did there lurk the 
design of revenging, to some extent, the dead youth whose 
fair fame had been clouded, for all those years, by the 
calumny a word from the craven brother-in-law could 
have dispelled? 

The dreamer was awakened by seeing her husband 
draw an envelope from his pocket, and tear a blank page 
from the letter it contained. Still dazed, she read across 
his arm what he scribbled hastily, while the duett went on. 

**Let me say what you wish to he said, when this is 
over! To insist upon your original design would he a re- 
finement of cruelty.’’ 

Folding the scrap of paper, he addressed it to Mrs. 
Carson, and signalled to an usher to take it behind the 
scenes. 

There was a fine fighting-strain in the Corlaers, and 
it is not beyond the range of possibilities that the out- 
raged wife may have bethought herself of gloating upon 
the refinement of retribution fate and Rhoda Carson 
would bring to pass in the public introduction of the 


A LONG LANE 


362 

father to the unsuspecting son. She may have reasoned, 
furthermore, that, were her husband to shirk the duty 
at this late hour, the schemer and intriguer to whom she 
owed the crucial humiliation of her life, would be as- 
sured that the barbarous plot was successful in all its 
parts. She would fight it out, if it cost her life and rea- 
son! She meant this when she dared Norman to stay 
where he was. 

The short night was wearing toward the small hours, 
the complacent manager reminded the still importunate 
audience at the close of the duett: 

‘‘For my own part, I admit that I would gladly go over 
the entire programme again, here and now. But we must 
not be forgetful of the cardinal maxim: ^The greatest 
good to the greatest number,’ and there are varying 
degrees of physical strength. It was my plan to have 
Dr. Norman Lang, the eminent President of Unity Col- 
lege, say a few words on behalf of the management and 
the troupe to you in bidding you, ‘Good night.’ Wait — • 
don’t applaud me yet! He would have obliged me in 
this, had not another bright idea occurred to me. Among 
our late arrivals is a noted divine whose coming I must 
regard as a special providence. For the Rev. Dr. Ed- 
ward de Baun baptised Mr. Walker, and has been, 
through a period of many years, the friend of his par- 
ents, although the two have not met since Mr. Walker’s 
return from Germany. It is, therefore, eminently ex- 
pedient that Dr. de Baun should be our spokesman.” 

She may not have been tired. It was apparent that 
she was less happily at her ease than in her earlier ad- 
dresses. A grateful audience accepted the substitute with 
good grace, and applauded the neat speech of acknowl- 
edgment the more heartily because of its brevity. 

The de Bauns worked their way out of the throng by 


A LONG LANE 


363 

the nearest exit, after the formality of the briefest pos- 
sible “Good nights” with their nearest neighbours. Loiter- 
ers in the aisles and haUs fell back respectfully to clear 
a way for the elderly man with a white moustache and 
a slight droop of the shoulders, whose companion — ^pre- 
sumably his wife — ^had evidently found the entertainment 
too much for her. She gasped as she walked, and the 
sombre eyes, too big for the small face, were larger and 
blacker for her deathly paUor. 

Stragglers in the office saw him come in, an hour after- 
ward, and enter his name and his wife’s as passengers for 
the early morning stage. 

“You won’t get much sleep to-night, sir.^” remarked 
the clerk, conversationally, in making the entry. 

“Please see that the trunks are sent for in time,” was 
the only reply. 

A guide took note of the haggard face and uncertain 
gait, and when the object was out of earshot, offered 
his comment in Adirondack patois : 

“Look’s ’f he’d had a bout with somebody or some- 
thin’, and come out second-best 1” 

At that moment Edward de Baun was ending a long 
and exquisitely painful conference with his sole confi- 
dante : 

“ ‘The mills of the gods may grind slowly,’ my love, 
^but they grind exceedingly small ! exceedingly small 1’ ” 








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